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CHRISTMAS ANGEL 


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B. L. FARJEON^S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. PRICE. 

179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest . 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget . 20 

657 Christmas Angel . . . . . . . 10 

1 . “ 



My Beloved ^Vife, 


I DEDICATE THIS STORY, 

THE IHSPIRATIOH OF WHICH SPRHIfG FROM 
THE ^DEEPEST SORROW OF OUR LIFE. 


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CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


BOOK THE FIRST. 

THE VISION IN THE NIGHT. 


CHAPTER I. 

“POSIES OF LOVE, HEART-BOEJI AND BOUND.” 

In the gray light of morning we lost a little child. 

He was very young, having lived but a few days over 
sixteen months, but his short life was long in suffering. 
Delicate from his birth he had been to us an object of 
tenderest solicitude, and it was not till the inexorable 
truth was forced upon us that we realized the bitter grief 
that was about to darken our days. We had woven fond 
parental fancies for his future — posies of love, heart-born 
and bound — and some of our friends who were in the 
habit of seeing him lie, silent and resigned, upon his 
couch, with an expression of solemn thoughtfulness on 
his beautiful face, copiforted us with the hope that he 
would in time grow strong, and, impressed by a strange 
earnestness in him most unusual in a child so young, 
prophesied that a noble and useful career was before him. 
Their hopes and ours were not to be fulfilled. Nature 
pressed with a hard hand upon him, and spared him no 
pang, until he drew his last breath, with a restful look in 
his sweet and patient eyes. He was grateful to die. 
AVhile his life was ebbing away his mother and I each held 
one of his wasted hands, and he turned liis eyes slowly 


8 


CHRISTMAS AKCtEL. 


and lovingly from her face to mine, from mine to hers, as 
though entreating us not to sorrow for having brought 
him into the world. All that human care and love could 
do for him had been done, but the roads of life, with their 
storms and shadows and gleams of sunshine, were not for 
him. Upon the portal of death’s open door angels were 
beckoning him, and he passed in contentedly. 

Dead were the possibilities of that young life; withered 
' were the posies we had woven for his future. 

We had never heard from his lips the childish prattle 
so dear to parents’ ears, and it was not granted to him to 
convey to our hearts, by the soft pattering of his little 
feet, home’^ sweetest music. Only on- the night before 
his death did he utter an intelligible word. It was past 
midnight, and he lay upon his bed with heaving breast, 
from which swift gasps of agony escaped as he lay and 
fought for breath. In pain as deep as his we watched the 
sufferer, suffering with him, waiting and fearing, our 
hearts charged with grief and pity. For two days and 
nights he had had no sleep, and we said to each other, 
'out of our helplessness, If he could only speak to us! 
If he could only point out to us what to do to relieve his 
sufferings!” But there was no sign to guide us; so we 
sat and mourned, and waited through that dolorous time. 

Our home was situated in the western part of the city, 
where, for nearly every hour of the twenty-four, the pul- 
sations of its heart can be seen and felt, beating feverish- 
ly in wild desires for fame, and gold and pleasure; where 
the groans and music which accompany the march of prog- 
ress are never for one instant stilled; where sword and 
gown, and rags and velvet, come into close contact; where 
smiles and tears are eternally mingled; where restless 
dreams, worthy and unworthy, are dreamed through day 
and night; some for fruition in a grave from which shall 
uprise sweet-smelling blossoms whose fragrance shall 
.spread from pole to pole, to delight and invigorate uu- 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


9 


born generations — some fated to decay so base and vile 
that it had been a blessing if the • dreamers had never 
drawn breath. The river was near, with its long line of 
mirrored lights reflected from street and sky, picturing 
spiritual cathedral aisles and mystic avenues stretching to> 
interminable depths; and on its southern bank loomed the 
grand old abbey, in which great deeds and noble lives (and 
some which were neither) are recorded by sculptured 
marble reared over dust and crumbling bones. Within 
our room the clock ticked loud, with a warning and a 
lesson in every measured movement of the pendulum; 

From life to death I keep the roll. From life to deaths 
surely, surely!” The abbey bells chimed the divisions of 
the hours,^^ and as each recorded particle of time glided 
into the past, and was forever lost to man and the world^ 
the solemn sounds conveyed to us the message that death 
was in our chamber, and would soon take our dear from 
us. Tihe bells were not the only sounds from without 
that troubled us. Discordant notes from wanderers of 
the night floated into the room — a laugh that was like a 
shriek, a line of song that was like a wail. The city vva& 
wrapped in treacherous slumber, and visions rose before 
me of human creatures slouching through the dark 
streets, slumbering against cold walls, lingering on the 
fateful bridges. Here, a man hungry, cold, despairing, 
who, in the time that was lost, held in his hands fair 
hopes which hot i:>assion withered and destroyed; here, 
a child-woman, betrayed, misguided, wrecked, who, Jn 
the time that was lost, turned from the calm shelter of a 
mother’s love, and deaf to warning, flew to the glaring' 
lights that woo to shame and ruin; here, the unfortunate 
ones, who, in the time that never was, had no knowledge- 
of the meaning of honesty and virtue — and through all 
these visions the muffled, unspoken refrain made itself 
lieard, ^^From life to death, from life to death, slowly, 
surely!” Then, in the midst of a stillness, wherein the 


10 


CHRISTMAS AKCtEL. 


ticking of the clock seemed for a few seconds hushed, onr 
dear gave utterance to a ciy. 

‘^Mammal Mamma! Mamma!’’ 

It was the body’s appeal to us, wrung from an overbur- 
dened heart. 

We clasped each other, and, with eyes laden with tears, 
looked at the face of our child. The pain of life was 
tliere, and remained for several hours. He did not speak 
iigain, and in the morning his pain was lifted from him, 
^ind the blessing of eternal rest was his. 

Two summers had passed over his head, but the flowers 
of earth bloomed not for him. We had been in the habit 
of making a resting-place for him on a couch placed in 
the recess of a window which looked out on a public gar- 
den, and there he would recline in an old-fashioned atti- 
tude, with his right foot drawn up and resting on his left 
knee. It was a bow-window, from which we had a view 
not only of the garden, but of the river and the abbey, and 
the walls of legislative houses where laws and wars are 
made. To the right, westward way, hidden- from our 
sight, were the vile haunts of Westminster, in which cor- 
ruption breeds and souls are lost. Hob- a-nob were noblest 
flower and foulest weed. It was well it was not in sight 
to sadden the glad view of the public garden. The birds, 
the ti^es, the devices of the bright flower-beds, the happy 
children playing about, rendered it one of the pleasantest 
scenes in the city. This from a distance, for coming into 
closer contact with certain features in the picture, drawn 
from those whose pathway of life lies chiefly in dark 
grooves, a view presented itself which clouded the scene. 
On days of sunshine we opened the window, and the soft 
warm air flowed into the room and kissed our boy’s face, 
but brought no gladness to it. At rare intervals — often 
of many days — a smile, in which pity for himself seemed 
to be expressed, lingered about his pretty mouth. It 
made our hearts ache to witness it 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 11 

At rarer intervals we used to take him out into the pub- 
lic garden, where, reclining in his mother’s arms, he could 
more plainl}? see the children playing about. His pathetic 
figure, with its touch of martyred sweetness, drew the 
children’s attention upon him. Some came and put 
gentle hands upon him, or stood gazing at the quiet face 
in pity, occasionally murmuring, ‘‘Poor little fellow!”' 
But the better dressed, who had nurse-maids to attend to 
them, were invariably called away, and were presently 
continuing their games round the flower beds. Thus, he 
was left much to himself. Lying in his mother’s arms 
he was ((uite content to watch the fleecy islands of the 
clouds. One day, however, a child as thin and pale as 
our dear lad, but with more strength in her limbs, came 
to his side and gazed at him. He returned her gaze with 
an expression of solemn interest in his eyes, and she re- 
mained by him until it was time for him to be taken home, 
AViien next he lay in his mother’s arms in the garden, the 
little girl came up and remained, as on the first occasion; 
and it seemed as though he recognized her, and derived a 
pleasure from seeing her again. Her clothes betokened 
that she belonged to the poorest classes, but her manners 
were not intrusive. My wife’s sympathies are witli the 
poor, and partly for that reason she did not repulse the ^ 
little girl, as 1 might have done out of a feeling of diS' 
approval at the association; but she was greatly influenced 
by an impression that the presence of the girl was a 
comfort to her darling. Had it not been for this, I have 
no doubt that I sliould have discouraged the intimacy. It 
is as well for me to say here that, although I have always 
been ready to recognize the hardships that perhaps too 
commonly fall to the lot of those who are born low down, 

I have at the same time held the opinion that the lines of 
dernarkation prescribed by custom, usage, and the laws of 
society (these representing in my view important elements 
in what is understood by the term civilization) should be 


12 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


most jealously observed. Vaguely, the idea of revolution 
presents itself, in which passions, now held in check, 
would be let loose to the danger of mankind. Seas and 
rivers are bound to their natural channels; destroy the 
barriers, and the world is lost. I have never sought to 
read between the lines of the laws under which I live. I 
have accepted them as they stand, reasoning that our 
present position is the result of generations of civilization, 
in the cause of which thousands of good men have labored, 
n,nd that it vvould be nothing less than presumption in me 
to attempt fco set wrong things right. That I have never 
felt the pinch of poverty is my good fortune. Eacli man 
to his lot. Our personal griefs are heavy enough to bear; 
why adji to them by voluntarily taking upon our shoulders 
the trouble of others? Setting aside the palpable unfair- 
ness of such a course, the burden would be too great. 

A selfish view, it may be said, I can advance nothing 
in extenuation, and my reserve on this head will be better 
understood as this story of human love and sorrow un- 
folds itself. 

Another thing. Occasional observations and reflections 
oven in these preliminary chapters may appear to clash 
with the opinions I have here briefly expressed. I can 
only explain the inconsistency by the statement that I am 
writing by the light of a new teaching as well as by that 
of old established views. I return now to my beloved 
child and his humble friend. 

The intimacy, unchecked but silently resented by me, 
gathered strength as the days went by, and in the course 
of a short time some singular scenes grew out of this come- 
by-chance bond of sympathy. The girl brought other 
little girls and boys to see our lad, all of them poor, many 
of them in rags, to whom a good meal would have been a 
very substantial foretaste of heaven. It would be absurd 
to say that the sympathy they exhibited toward him was 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


13 


in every instance sincere. There is a terrible genius whose 
name is Want, and with him these children were well ac- 
quainted. ~He had already taught them cunning, and, 
young as they were, there .were among them many past 
masters in that quality. Indeed, with them it had be- 
come an art. They recognized the difference in station 
between our dear lad and themselves, and they witched 
coppers, and occasionally a small piece of silver from him, 
his mother being his willing almoner. She interpreted his 
-charities, and saw hidden meanings in his eyes as the 
motley group of youngsters played their antics in his sight, 
walking on their hands, dancing the last eccentric dances 
with wonderful skill and spirit, and turning Catherine 
wheels for so long a time together and with such velocity 
that earth and sky must have resolved themselves into a 
huge teetotum in full spin. In these performances, apart 
from the profit they derived from them, there was, for the 
actors, as subtle a fascination as for our lad, who witness- 
ed them with solemn approval. I did not suspect this in 
those days, but I learned it afterward, when our dear one 
was lying on the bed from which he was never to rise. They 
knew that he was slowly dying, and the sad truth elevated 
him into a person of distinction. Had they been perform, 
ing before royalty they could not have exerted themselves 
more zealously. 

The little girl who had brought these friends and com- 
panions from their haunts to entertain him was also a 
silent spectator of the performances, not joining in them, 
but regarding them with a critical eye, and doubtless en‘ 
couraging them in private to renewed and novel efforts to 
amuse her young friend and patron. Not that she bene- 
fitted by them in a pecuniary sense. It never occurred to 
the other ragamuffins to offer toshare their gains with her. 
Oenerally, when the guerdon was bestowed, they scam- 
pered off pell mell to a favorite cook shop, where a luxu- 
I'ious meal could be had for twopence. She remained be- 


14 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


hind, and did not leave the gardens till it was time.forour 
dear lad to be taken home. 

How well do I remember the day upon which he visited 
the public gardens for the last time! With what vivid- 
ness does it all come back to me! It was, indeed, a mem- 
orable day. The little girl was there. So close an in- 
timacy had grown between her and our boy that his thin, 
wasted fingers were closed upon one of hers. She knew 
that his name was Charlie, and she was speaking softly to 
him. She was telling him of a dog she owned that had 
met with an accident, and promising to bring it to him 
when it was strong and convalescent. 

In all yer born days, Charlie,” she said, ^^yer never 
see sich a dawg. There never was, and never will be, an- 
other to compare with ’im. He can do almost anythink 
but speak, and he’s up to that number of tricks that he 
might ’ave come out in a pantermine if he ’adn’t been so 
unfort’nit as do for ’isself. Many a time I’ve sed to ’im, 

^ Spot,’ I’ve sed, and he’s got that sense that he follered 
every blessed word I spoke, ‘Spot,’ I’ve sed, ‘ I’ll take yer 
to Droory Lane, and we’ll git yer an engagement at a 
pound a week, and per’aps I’ll git taken on myself as a 
nimp at a bob a night; and then we’ll ’ave cow ’eel and 
trotters for supper all through the season.’ But wot does 
Spot do, d’yer think, Charlie, wot does he do the very 
morning as I washes ’im, and does myself up spruce, and 
was going to take ’im to the theayter? Why, as we was 
crossing the road he goes and gets ’isself run over by an 
omlibus, and ’as one of ’is legs took clean off! That spiles 
our little game for good and all. It was all up with Spot 
for the show business — and all up with me too, for /knew^ 
jolly well that, without Spot, they wouldn’t as much as 
give me a second look — which,” she wound up with un- 
conscious humor, “they’d be bound not to do if they give 
me a fust.” 

Charlie never removed his eyes from her face. It was 


CHEISTMAS AI^GEL. 


15 


a pathetic little face, thin and dark, with deep-sunken 
eyes which shone from out their hollows like bright black 
beads. Her hair hung in disorder over her forehead, her 
lips were beautifully curved, and, when parted, displayed 
a set of pearly, even teeth, all the whiter because of the 
dusky paleness of her cheeks. She had a woman’s pair 
of boots on her feet, quite worn out, and old black stock- 
ings, also several sizes too large, on her legs, which in 
substance resembled the straight stems of a couple of long 
clay pipes. Although the most striking characteristic of 
this figure was its pathos, the face and eyes were not de- 
void of humorous touches, which, under happier auspices 
of worldly fortune, would hav'e found more frequent pla}^ 
As it was, she gave indications of this lighter humor, 
which would have met with greater success could she 
have kept it free from pathetic sentiment. 

Spot and me, Charlie,” she continued, stroking 
Charlie’s face with her disengaged hand, ^^are reg’lar pals. 
We’ve never been separated a day since T snatched him 
out of the pail they was trying to drown ’im in, and we’ve 
\ad that number of larks together that there’s no counting 
of ’em. He ain’t got no one but me to look after ’im, and 
I ain’t got no one but ’im to look after me. There’s old 
Alablaster, though — I mustn’t forget ’im; but he don’t 
keep a bank. Now that Spot’s short of a leg we ain’t 
much good to each other. He knows he ’ad no business 
to go and git run over, and he tries to make up for it. 
’Eart, Charlie! There never was a dawg with such a big 
^eart as Spot. ^But wot’s the good of that,’ I ses to ’im, 
^ as fur as cow ’eel and trotters for supper goes’ — (only 
think of it, Charlie! For a whole season!)— Wot’s the 
good of a big ’eart if yer ain’t got the regerlation number 
of legs?’ He waltzed that beautiful that we used to make 
a ring for ’im when the organ man come, as orfered me 
flppence for ’im, and because I wouldn’t take it, stole ’im. 
But he didn’t keep ’im long. Spot’s teeth was too sharp. 


16 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


He tries to waltz now, but all the time he’s limping round 
he seems to be looking for ’is other leg, witliout knowing 
of it, and he’s that clumsy and comic that he makes me 
laugh till I cry. 'It’s not a bit of good, Spot,’ I ses. 
'Give it up.’ And he gives it up, and goes and lays down 
in a corner, and begins to yelp. He couldn’t yelp louder 
if he was going to ’is own funeral.” 

It pleased her, and it pleased my wife also, to believe 
that Charlie understood what she was saying, and took an 
interest in it. There was deep earnestness in her voice, 
which ordinarily was thin and shrill, but which was now 
so softened down by sympathy that it was truly melodious. 

"Child,” I said, won to her by the tremulous, sympa- 
thetic pulsation which sweetened every common word of 
the common story she was relating; there were occasions 
when her manifest tenderness and unselfishness were 
powerful weapons against the views I held of the poor; 
" Child, you speak as if you were alone in the world.” 

" Oh, no, sir,” she said, cheerfully, " I ain’t that. Why, 
there’s Mr. Alablaster — ” 

" This is the second time you have mentioned his 
name,” I said, interrupting her. " Who is this friend of 
■yours?” 

" He’s the most wonderful man you could find all over 
the world. There ain’t nothink he can’t do. If anybody 
in Pentecost Court is taken ill, Mr. Alablaster knows wot’s 
the matter the minute he sets eyes on ’im. He can tell 
fortunes, sir, and can read the stars. He’s only got to 
look at yer ’and, and he finds out what’s going to ’appen 
to yer and to everybody belonging to yer. There ain’t 
nobody like ’im nowhere.” 

I set this man down in my mind as’one of those harpies 
who rob and prey upon the poor — a vulgar fortune-teller, 
a little more cunning than his fellows, and therefore able 
to overreach them. 

"Mr. Alabkster,” continued the girl, " would do a lot 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


17 


for me if he could, but 3'er caii^t do more than jer can,, 
can yer, sir? He ain’t rich, worse luck: fur from it. No^ 
sir, I ain’t alone in the world when Mr. Alablaster’s by. 
And there’s Bold Peggy — per’aps yer can call ’er to mind,, 
sir; she’s Dne o’ them as comes to amuse Charlie; she’s got 
a red face, and red ’air, and a turn-up nose, and she’s the 
best dancer we’ve got in Pentecost. She can do the splits,, 
sir. ’.Er and me are pals'=-when she likes. Yer mustn’t 
cross Bold Peggy, sir, when slie’s out of sorts; ’er temper’s- 
a caution. Then there’s Blossie — yer don’t know Hm by 
name, I dessay, sir, but he’s not to be mistook once yer’ve 
marked ’im. They do say, when he was a babby he was 
like a bit of waxwork, a reg’lar beauty. Golden ’air all 
round ’is’ead, bloo eyes, and a skin like satiing. That’s 
’ow he got the name of Blossie, sir — from Blossom. He’s 
the boy that’s always a-chooing a straw.” (I recognized 
Blossie by this description; a strong, coarse-grained, beetle- 
browed youth, with a straw forever in his mouth, which 
he ostentatiously bit and chewed. His coat of arms, in 
fact. If he had ever possessed the beauty of form and 
features described by his eulogizer, no trace of it was left. 
He, as well as Bold Peggy, was one of my particular aver- 
sions.) Blossie’s mighty pertick’ler about that straw of 
’is’n. He can lick any two boys in Pentecost, and once ho 
licked a man twice as big as ’isself. He ses ’is father 
always choo’d a straw, and he’s going to do it all ’is life; 
and wot’s more, he won’t let any other boy do it. If he 
ketches one with a straw in ’is mouth he licks ’im, and 
that settles it. He picks out his straws every morning, 
and cuts ’em all of a length, and goes on a-chooing of ’em 
all day long. Oh, no, sir, I ain’t alone in the world, 
with Bold Peggy, and Blossie, and Mr. Alablaster. And 
if yer won’t mind my saying so, sir” — and here she 
looked nervously at me; uncultivated and uneducated as 
she was, she had gauged and judged me — there’s Charlie. 
I think he likes me, sir, and I’m sure Hike ’im. I’d do 


18 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


a power of good if I was able to. I don’t know 
which comes fust, sir, Charlie or Spot. I think it ought 
to be Spot, though he is only a dawg, ’cause I saved ’ini 
from being drowned, and ’cause I’ve knowed ’irn for so 
much longer. Alone in the world! Oh, no, sir.” 

You have said nothing about your parents.” 

Mother and father, sir?” 

‘^Yes.” 

Meaning, ’ave I got any, sir?” 

^^Yes.” 

can’t say as I ’ave, sir; leastways I don’t know 
iiothink about ’em; they don’t trouble their ’eads about 
me. Per’aps I’m as well off without ’em. Bold Peggy’s 
got a mother and father, and they fight like cat and 
dawg; and Peggy, she comes in for ’er share, I can tt^ll 
jer.” 

What is your name, child?” I asked. 

Molka,” she replied. 


CHAPTER II. 

FATE GUARD YOU, MOLKA.” 

WAS pondering over this singular name when I, ob- 
served a sudden pleasant light in Molka’s eyes. Seeking 
for the cause, I discovered it in a man who was walking 
toward us. 

He was a man whose age, starting at forty, it was diffi- 
cult to gue'ss. In guile, of which there w’as evidence in 
his features, he might hav-e been a centenarian; in lithe 
movement he might have been in his lusty prime; in ex- 
pression, which was as remarkable for pity as for scorn, 
he might have lived his full span, after having gathered 
iin abundant harvest of wisdom to enable him to judge of 
men and things with fatal, unerring certainty, ^^'otwith- 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 


19 


standing these distinguishing marks, which impressed me 
at the first glance, a man quite commonly dressed, and 
seemingly poor. 

You know him?” I said to Molka. 

Yes, sir,” she replied; ‘Mt’s Mr. Alablaster.” 

I examined him more closely as he walked slowly toward 
me. Slim, tall, and erect, with reflective gray eyes, large^ 
framed nose, straight, thin lips, large hands, with blue 
veins distinctly marked; with an empty purse I judged,, 
and rightly judged, yet holding himself as a chief among 
men would have a warranty in doing. Conspicuous in 
subtlety, without a trace of meanness or cunning in his 
demeanor or gait: for a fox walks like a fox. Frank, 
without exhibition of weak affectations, such as foolish 
vanity often displays; deep without duplicity; strong 
without pride: There was nothing in him which was in- 
tended to proclaim, am I; behold me.” His manhood 
asserted itself by tlie strength of inherent wisdom; he did 
not lower its quality, as some do, by affectation, of dress 
or manner, or by singularity of personal bearing, to pro- 
voke notice and comment. Such was the man whont 
Molka introduced to my notice as Mr. Alablaster, and I 
inwardly confessed that he could not but be a far different 
being than I had supposed him. I was compelled to render 
him so much justice, even before I came into communica- 
tion with him. We form our ideals of men before we 
see them, and, as a rule are strangely disappointed in 
their presentment. Great statesmen, artists, authors, 
gods of our imagination, dwindle into mortal proportions 
when we behold them, and we regret that the magic veil 
of distance had not prevented us from becoming familiar 
to them. This statesman, whose achievments have glori- 
fied him into heroic proportions; this soldier, whose deeds 
jH’oclaim him noble; this artist, who by a few touches of 
his brush, can make the canvas live; this author, whose 
2)ure vein of sentiment has drawn tears from our eyes. 


•20 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


seem of lower degree, because of our worship, when we 
tire brought face to face with them. It is a shock to 
see that they come down to our level. They were^un- 
,^ods; they are ordinary clay. Best that those whose 
world’s work proclaims them great should not be seen. 
Homer, were he walking among us, would prove a disap- 
pointment. 

These experiences and disappointments have come to 
me, as to other men. Inversely, when Molka’s friend pre- 
sented himself, he was raised in my estimation instead of 
lowered. 

I thought you’d come,” said Molka, in response to his 
greeting, to see Charlie.” And then to me, with earnest 
'Cyes, and still more earnest voice, ‘^Mr. Alablaster can 
cure ’im, sir, if anybody can.” 

He turned to me, and said, with courteous smile, ‘^In 
our alleys, especially about Pentecost, the female children 
call me Alablaster; the male children call me Alablastim. 
Put an aitch in the appropriate places, and were I an 
iingry man I could find justification for my anger. My 
name is Alabaster.” 

I’ve told Mr. Alablaster, sir,” said Molka, all about 
poor Charlie, and I begged ’im to come and make ’irn well. 

I ’ope yer won’t take it as a liberty, sir.” 

My wife’s eyes overflowed, and, with unreasoning hope 
that leaped the barriers'of inexorable destiny, she gazed 
with full heart at the man whom Molka had conjured to 
our side in our affliction. In Ms blue eyes a tender moist- 
ure shone. The mother’s silent appeal, more potent than 
the rod of Moses, touched his heart, and drew forth his 
sympathy. 

Molka has faith,” he said. If it abide with her all 
her days she will be the happier for it.” 

There was in him a magnetism so powerful that I could 
not resist its influence. His speech confirmed the impres- 
sion I had gained of him almost at the moment I had set 


CHEISTMAS AKCtEL. 


21 


eyes on him. It was grave as well as courteous, and his 
words were so well chosen as to add to my wonder at the 
contrast between them and his manifest humble position 
in life. 

“ He is young,” said Mr. Alabaster, laying" his hand 
upon Charlie’s head. 

Barely fourteen months,” I said. 

Charlie raised his eyes to Mr. Alabaster’s face. Molka 
watched them with eager intentness. My wife also. I 
knew what was in her mind. She was thinking of heal- 
ing by touch, and was hoping for a miracle. What passed 
in the minds of the man and the child was not revealed. 
For quite two minutes they' gazed each upon the other 
with calm earnestness, and then Mr, Alabaster removed 
his hand. 

. ‘‘ Spring time has come and gone,” he said, “and the 
summer is lost to us.” He pointed upward to a flock of 
birds busy in an old elm. “In a few days you will not 
see them ; they will be traveling to a summer clime,” 

My wife’s head drooped, and she drew our dear lad 
closer to her bosom. 

“But yer don’t say nothink about Charlie, Mr. Ala* 
blaster,” said Molka, plucking his coat. “You ca7i cure 
^im, can’t yer, and you loill, won’t yer?” 

“ I deal in herbs and simples,” said Mr. A.labaster, ad- 
dressing me, “roots with plain names, and nature’s un- 
adulterated remedies for the sicknesses of mortality. Hav- 
ing had some ordinary triumphs, I am credited with a 
power never possessed by man. As for your child — per- 
haps it is better so! ” 

“ But can’t yer tell ’is fortune, sir?” asked Molka. 

“ His fortune,” replied Mr. Alabaster, “ is told by a 
higher power,” 

Despite his kind accent, there was to my sensitive ears 
D callousness in his tone, and I could not avoid the exhibi- 
tion of a feeling of resentment as I gazed at him. He did 


22 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


not appear to notice it, but stood with lijs hand resting 
lightly on Molka’s shoulder. It Avas only when he ad- 
dressed me that the magnetism in him inthralled me* 
When his eyes Avere not upon my face his power was gone* 
At that moment a number of Molka’s ragged friends ap- 
proached us, and would have commenced their antics had 
not a Avarning look from my Avife directed me to forbid all 
noise. Charlie’s eyes Avere closed and he seemed to be 
slumbering. I went to the children, and speaking sharply 
to them, bade them leave us in peace. But Mr. Ala- 
baster, who was by my side, beckoned them to stay aAvhile, 
and they obeyed him and disregarded me. It Avas clear 
that he Avas a man who, by inherent force of characteiv 
held authority over them. Among the children Avere the 
two Avho had been described by Molka — Blossie cheAving 
straw, and Bold Peggie. She was Avell named. Her face, 
her hair, her eyes Avere red. Her small, pointed nose, her 
bold, saucy looks, her defiant, reckless demeanor, her 
coarse laugh, her rags and general untidiness, had on pre- 
vious occasions caused me to regard her Avith repugnance,' 
and I was therefore surprised to see Mr, Alabaster draAv 
her forward Avith an exhibition of singular tenderness and 
kindness. It did not raise him in my estimation. He pub 
his hand under her chin, and a bold grin appeared on her 
face. 

AVell, Peggy,” he said. 

Well, Mr. Alablaster,” she responded, ^^yer’ll know me 
agin when yer see me. Wotd’yer think of me?” 

You are made and finished, Peggy,” he said, graA^ely, 
^Mn the past, present, and future, without my interven- 
tion. Brain, bone, muscle, and flesh, you are Avhat you 
are. Difficult to unmake you, my girl. Your destiny is 
Avrit.” It was for my inspection that he held up her face, 
Avhich was the embodiment of low vice and cunning. She 
saluted me Avith a familiar leer. It needs no deep reader 
of human character to predict her future.” 


CHRISTMAS AXGEL. 


23 


Are yer going to tell my fortune, Mr. Alablaster?” 
cried Bold Peggy, clapping her hands. ThaPs wot yer 
mean by destiny, ain’t it. I say, chaps, he’s going to tell 
my fortune. Fair man or dark man, Mr. Alablaster?” 

The other children gathered round, their mouths wide 
open, their eyes dilating. 

Your fortune, Peggy!” exclaimed Mr. Alabaster, in a 
kind tone. ‘‘You would really like to hear it? But 
that’s a foolish question to ask.” 

“ You’re right there,” said Peggy. “ I say, make it a 
good ’un, I should like sich a lot o’ things,” 

“ You are not singular in that respect, Peggy. How old 
iire you?” 

“ ’Ow should I know? But I can tell yer somethink — 

I wasn’t born yesterday.” 

“ Where do you live?” 

“ You’re gammoning me. ’Aven’t yer been there lots 
c’ times? Eight at the bottom of Pentecost Court, in 
course.” 

“ How many rooms have you, Peggy?” 

“ Well, that’s a good un! I didn’t think we was speak- 
ing of Buckin’am Palace. Why, one room, in course.” 

“ How many of you live there?” 

Bold Peggy did'Iisum on her fingers, and having come 
to the end of them on her two hands, said, “ Blest if I 
can count ’em ! There’s the other lot as well as us. And ^ 
oh, Mr. i\lablaster, did yer ’ear that there was a bran new 
baby this morning?” 

“ Belonging to the other lot?” 

“ In course. Ketch mother ’aving any more!” 

“A brand-new baby, eh? Born in the one room in 
which not less than a dozen of you live, eat, and sleep.” 

“ Where else should it be born, I’d like to know?” 

“ Can you read, Peggy?” 

“Hot me.” 

Or write?” 


24 


CHHISTMAS AKGEL. 


Not a bit of it. But I tell yer wot I can do. I can 
draw/'^ 

‘‘I was not aware that was one of your accomplish- 
ments. Give me a specimen.’’ 

He handed her a pencil and paper, and she drew, 
roughly, a sketch of the boy Blossie, with his straw in his 
mouth, so true to life as to elicit warm commendations 
from her companions, who tiptoed and craned over her 
shoulder to examine it, while Blossie, as the hero, struck 
an attitude. She gave the sketch to Mr. Alabaster, with 
the remark ; 

’Ere yer are. A penny plain, and tuppence colored,”^ 
So you have a talent,” said Mr. Alabaster, ‘‘which, 
cultivated, and in a healthier garden, would produce'good 
fruit.” 

“Blest if I can understand wot yer driving at. Can’t 
yer come down a bit?” 

“ I’ll try to, Peggy. Do you go to church?” 

“ Not likely.” 

“Do you pray?” 

“ Wot for, I should like to know?” 

“ Do you believe in God?” 

“ ’Ere, I’m tired o’ this,” cried Peggy. “You want 
to take a rise out o’ me, that’s wot you want to do! Come 
along, chaps. He’s only making game of us.” 

Away they scampered, laughing and jeering, mocking 
Mr. Alabaster’s last question as they went. “Do you go 
to church, Blossie?” To which Blossie replied, “ Church 
yer grandmother.” 

Mr. Alabaster turned to me, and asked: 

“ Whose is the happier fate — your child’s or Bold Peg- 
gy’s? Who is the most to be pitied?” 

“ Is death a blessing, then, and life a curse?” I asked, 
bitterly. 

“Death is always a blessing,” he said. “ Whether life 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


25 


is a curse frequently depends upon conditions over which 
those who are born under them have as much control as a 
feather in a fierce wind, though they are held responsible 
:and accountable for the natural outcome of them. I have 
been called a fortune-teller, a reader of the stars. The 
4irt of divination, when applied to our fellow- creatures, is 
easily acquired, if the mind is not warped by prejudice, or 
clouded by the pride of race or prosperity. There are not 
so many varieties of human nature that one need be 
greatly puzzled to prophesy the fate of the young who are 
born and live in the Pentecost slums. You sov/ seeds, 
and though the darkness of earth hide them from your 
sight, you know the harvest which shall uprise from them. 
You are not disturbed by doubt of grain or flower. You 
graft, you experiment, for improvement and abundance of 
beauty; you plant, with full confidence in the result. So 
with human nature in the main. Gutter child, gutter 
man, unless you pluck it from its degradation before it 
has taken root, and transplant it to healthier soil. There 
are roses and roses. Our little queen, Molka— ” 

Queen!’’ I echoed. 

Yes, queen. In healthy soil, though a taint be in 
her, she would be a fair rose in her years of blossom. As 
it isj unless an unforseen good occurs (which, thank God! 
does sometimes happen), what can she be but a sickly 
flower, a very mockery of a rose? If she fall, you will 
have no right to condemn her — any more than you will 
have the right to condemn Bold Peggy, the vices of whose 
blood have been nourished and strengthened at her 
mother’s breast. All my pity is for such as she; before . 
she sins, I am ready to forgive. Were the power mine, 

I would take all the Bold Peggies of the city, and, by 
means of my plants and simples, treat them to immediate 
oblivion, saying, as I so dealt by them, ^Die; be happy.’” 
He paused for a few moments before he spoke again. 

The sight of your noble, patient child has moved me. 


26 


CHRISTMAS AlfGEL. 


If he were to bless you by living he might teach you 
what you need — a lesson of toleration and mercy, for 
which grain he would have to thank his mother. But he 
may bless you by dying.” 

I turned from the speaker in horror and anger, but 
there was so strong a magnetism in him that I was pres- 
ently listening to him again, against my will as it seemed* 
He made no allusion to my abrupt movement, which bore 
upon its front an air of rudeness, but calmly continued,, 
as though no interruption had occurred. 

I was told by Molka that your lad had taken to heiv 
It was solely for her sake that I came here to-day. She 
pleaded so wistfully that I had not the heart to refuse 
her. I tremble for her future, but I can do nothing for 
her, my means being barely sufiScient for my own subsist- 
ence. If you have observed her features you will liave 
seen that she is likely to grow into rare beauty. Her 
mother, I have heard, was very beautiful. I believe she- 
is dead. For humanity’s sake it is to be hoped she is, 
for, living, how could she hope to be forgiven for desert- 
ing her child and leaving her to the mercy of strangers? 
She was in some way celebrated or notorious, and was 
called Molka — otherwise, Queen. That name is her child’s 
only inheritance. Our Molka lives from hand to mouth, 
the hand being frequently empty. She is capable of self- 
sacrifice, as you may have observed, and has a human vein 
of sympathy in her body. And now, as I perceive that 
both my theories and my presence are distasteful to you, 
I wish you good-day.” 

He lingered for a moment at Molka’s side, and gazed 
down gravely upon her. She gave him a bright smile, 
and he walked slowly away. When he was gone I felt as 
if a weight were removed from my heart. Soon after he 
had taken his departure we also left the gardens, which 
our darling boy was never again to revisit. 

Some time ajter this, within a week of our dear lad’s 


CHEISTMAS A If gel: 


27 


death, I met Molka in the Strand. She looked pale and 
thin, and I observed that she was lame. 

Have you met with an accident,’’ I asked, that you 
walk with such difficulty?” 

Her face brightened instantly, in gratitude for my in- 
quiry. 

^‘Oh, it’s nothink much, sir,” she said. ^‘Spot and 
me’s a pair now. I was well-nigh run over, sir. I don’t 
quite know ’ow it ’appened, but all at once as I was cross- 
ing the road, sir, there was I on my back, with some’orses 
kicking over me. When they lifted me up they found 
out that my leg was broke. It ’d been all right if Mr. 
Alablaster ’ad been ’ere, but he was away in the country, 
and a doctor did somethink to my leg, and did it wrong, 
and they say they’ll ’ave to break it agin on purpose afore 
they can put it right. I don’t care, so long as I ain’t 
going to ’ave it off. But never mind me, sir.” And 
now her face grew anxious. I want yer to tell me 
about poor Charlie. ’Ow is he, sir? I wasn’t able to go 
to the gardens for a long while, so I missed seeing ’im.” 

‘■‘He has not been there,” I said, sadly, “since you 
last saw him.” 

When she ceased speaking of herself and her troubles, 
which she did with much cheerfulness, I saw how wan 
she looked, and it seemed to me that she was in want of 
food. 

“In remembrance of Charlie,” I said, as I gave her a 
shilling. 

She turned it over and over again in her hand; her lips 
trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, 

“Thank yer, sir,” she said, in a low tremulous tone; 
“ it’s more than kind of yer.” 

I nodded, and left her, but my attention was presently 
arrested by hurried, limping footsteps at my side. It was 
Molka, who had followed me, despite the pain she must 
have experienced in walking so fast. 


28 


CHRISTI^LAS Ai^GEL. 


I beg your pardon, sir,’’ she said, huskily; ‘^yer sed 
in remembrance of Charlie.” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“And he ain’t been in the gardens for ever so long!” 
She gave a swift apprehensive look at my hat. “ No, no!”"’ 
she cried. “Thank Cod Almighty! ’Cause if it was^ 
yer’d ’ave crape on it!” 

My heart almost ceased beating; she had put my fear 
into words. 

“No, Molka,” I said, “thank God our dear boy lives;, 
but he is ill, child, very, very ill!” 

“Very, very ill!” she echoed, in a voice as sad as my 
own. “ Poor Charlie! Poor little Charlie!” 

I turned from her again, and resumed my way; and as 
I did so I heard her sob. Looking back, I saw her lean- 
ing against the wall, with the tears running down her 
thin, white face. They were shed for Charlie, and when 
the terrible blow fell, and we were visited by the never-to- 
be-forgotten bereavement, I knew that Charlie’s humble 
friend would be sorry to hear that he had been taken 
from us. 


CHAPTER III. 

“THERE WAS A HEAVENLY BEAUTY IN HIS FACE.” 

When the first shock of grief at our loss was spent,, 
and we realized that our dear lad’s trouble was over, it 
comforted me to think that this sweet young soul had 
gone to its Creator with no stain upon it; that it was free 
from the soil of worldly ways; that it was white, and inno- 
cent, and pure. In the midst of her tears my wife found 
a spiritual consolation in the belief that her mother, who 
died many years ago, would take care of her child until 
death reunites her with her darling boy. My mother 
also would welcome and love him. His nature and hers 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


20 


were alike remarkable for sweetest attributes of gentleness 
and patience. 

1 cleared a table at which I was accustomed to write^ 
and the inanimate form of our dear lad was laid upon it, 
clad in his prettiest night-dress. It was winter, but I had 
obtained some simple flowers of love and remembrance,, 
and these were scattered over him; some were in his right 
hand, and some in the white band round his waist. On 
his breast were a few winter flowers, gathered by his 
brother, whose years were but three, and whom we had 
sent to some friends in tlie country, so that he miglit bo 
out of the way of death. There was a heavenly beauty in 
our Charlie’s face. The loveliness of the picture, as it lay 
before me in tlie quiet room, will ' be, tb my last hour, an 
abiding memory of infinite tenderness. 

It was a fancy of mine that the table upon which he was 
placed should be drawn to the bow-window from which lie- 
used to watch the children at play in the public garden; 
it seemed to mo a spiritual bond betw^een the living and 
the dead. 

Before I retired to rest I kissed the cold white lijos and 
the hand that held the flowers. Then, treading softly, I 
went to my bedroom, with a prayer in my mind. 

My wife was asleep, overpowered with fatigue. She 
would have lingered by the side of her dear lad all through 
the night, I believe, had I not prevailed upon her to seek 
repose. She needed it sorely, for she had been terribly 
overtaxed. But now her long night vigils v/ere over, and 
nature was merciful. She was sleeping calmly and peace- 
fully. A child herself in many of her wa 3 ^s, she had borne- 
with surprising strength the duties which a mother’s love,, 
stronger even than a mother’s duty, had imposed upon 
her. During the heavy days that were gone not a mur- 
mur for herself had escaped her. Traces of tears were on 
her eyelids, and her girl-baby was pressed close to her 
bosom. I kissed her without waking her, and thanked 


30 CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 

Ood that I had for my mate a woman whose instincts 
were charitable and generous and whose mind was pure. 

So that I should not disturb her I threw myself, dressed, 
upon a couch, and courted sleep. There was a strange 
and new significance in the darkness and stillness of my 
chamber, and I lay for hours, dozing lightly and waking 
suddenly; now oppressed by sorrowful reflection, now 
under the spell of a singular peace and calm. There was 
no terror for me in the knowledge that death was in the 
house, and when my dead child walked into my room 
and stood by my bedside, I felt neither surprise nor fear. 
He wore his white nightdress, and the flowers were in his 
hand and in the white band round his waist. He held, 
also, the flowers his brother had gathered for him in the 
country. His head scarcely reached my breast. He looked 
up at me, and I looked at him, in silence for a little 
while; and then he said, in a soft clear voice. 

Come with me.’’ 

o 

BOOK THE SECOND, 

TEE ROADS OT LIFE. 

CHAPTER I. 

DREW GLADHESS FROM THE GLADHESS OF HIS HEART.” 

The nigKt was very dark. Not a star was to be seen, 
A black veil of clouds was over the sky, in which there 
was no life or movement. The moment my child and I 
were in the open I was conscious of a change in the time 
of year. We had either traveled back a season or forward 
three. The winter was no longer with us, and a soft 
warm breeze glided through the gloom. 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 


31 


The only light to guide me on my way emanated from 
the white dress of my child and from the beautiful face 
he turned toward me. I saw the face clearly in tho 
midst of the darkness, and the brown eyes with their 
lovely lashes, which had been the pride of his mother’s 
heart and mine, and the light brown hair, upon which a 
glory seemed to rest. I knew that he was at peace; his 
face proclaimed it. With a glad lieart, because of the 
gladness which dwelt in the heart of my child, I kept pace 
with the little feet which pattered by my side. 

We met no living soul. Had any been near I should 
have known of their presence, but my child and I might 
have been alone in the world for any sounds which reached 
my' ears. Even the sound of my own footsteps was 
huslied, and I rather felt than heard the pattering of the 
little feet I had so often kissed. Occasionally I stooped 
and caressed the liead of my child, and kissed him, and 
fondled his baby hand, and always when I did so it 
brought to my lips a reflection of the calm and happy 
smile which rested on his own. Thus we walked on, in 
perfect peace and contentment. The fever and unrest 
which had filled my soul for many montG^past took flight, 
and a spirit of heavenly repose pervaded my being. I did 
not pause to consider whither we were walking, or to 
what end, and I was not troubled by thought of what was 
behind or before me. I felt myself under the influence 
of a higher power than that contained in mere human 
will, and I yielded unresistingly. *I could not see the 
roads we were traversing, but no sense of danger caused 
my steps to falter. At first we traversed the roads of a 
city; tlie firm pavement beneath my feet assured me of 
tliis fact, no less than the scarcely perceptible outlines of 
tall buildings which impressed themselves more upon my 
inner than my outward senses. Gradually the number of 
these buildings was lessened until we left them entirely 
behind us. We trod now through a lane, with fragrant 


S2 CHEISTMA& ANGEL. 

hedges, more than man high, on either side, now upon a 
wide expanse of grass, now upon a crisp springy soil from 
which sweet odors rose, and now upon a narrow track cub 
through fields of wheat almost ready for the scythe. The 
soft musical sybillatjon of the waving stalks conveyed a 
meaning to my mind. In this tender whispering of the 
corn I heard nature’s beneficent message to man. Op- 
pression and greed were dead, killed by a holier light than 
that which illumines the brain of the ghoul who specu- 
lates in food. Within fair and honest limitations every 
workman could enjoy the earth and the fruits thereof. 
The lessons of humanity had blossomed into fiower, and 
made themselves felt in the midst of the darkness. I was 
truly happy. 

It is not possible for me to say for how long a time we 
walked before I became conscious of a strange change in 
the scenes by which we were surrounded — a change which 
affected the common conditions of human life and the 
ordinary rules of nature; nor can Isay how the knowledge 
came upon me. It is sufficient that I knew that the sea- 
sons were traveling their course, and that the autumn 
was again approffChing, I was gifted with a spiritual 
sight which enabled me to perceive that the corn was cut,. 
that the hops were gathered, and that the brown leaves 
were falling at our feet. Soon I felt the approach of 
winter, and the bright berries of the holly shone among 
the polished leaves; the soft snow fell, and beautified the 
woods and hedges witJi quaint device, and I almost fancied 
I could hear the angels singing their holy songs of peace 
mid good will. So the winter passed away with its glisten- 
ing eyes and health-giving breath, and in the warm earth 
which lay beneath the snow the primroses were waiting 
for spring. It came in all its beauty, and tree and leaf 
rejoiced in their new birth. Their warm winds kissed my 
cheek, and it was summer again. Thus we traveled on 
iinwearyingly from season to season, from year to year. 


CHKISTMAS Ais'GEL. 


33 


Often for a brief space rain fell, and snow, but they 
touched ns not; we journeyed through the storms in 
safety, and there was not so much as a stain upon us. And 
still the same calm and happy smile rested upon the 
mouth of my child, and I drew gladness from the gladness 
of his heart. But suddenly a deeper calmness encom- 
passed us, and I heard the striking of the clock of a dis- 
tant church. We stopped to listen, and I counted the 
strokes. The clock struck the hour of ten. By that 
sign, and by no other, did I then know that I was in. tne 
world, and of it. 

From that moment it was beyond my power to separate 
the real from the unreal. Each was merged into the 
other by methods so subtle that it was impossible to dis- 
entangle them. All that had passed presented itself to 
my mind in a confused shape. It appeared to me as if I 
had been for years dominated by dreams which had 
brought to my soul the extremes of joy and woe, and that 
even now I was but partially awake. Two horsemen flew 
past us with the velocity of the wind^and when they were 
gone I could not decide whether they were shadows or 
veritable flesh and blood. Yet swiftly as they flew I had 
caught a glimpse — or had my imagination conjured it 
up? — -of one who had long been dead to me, a brother who 
in his youth had so roused our father to anger that he 
was turned from home, to wander through the world, cut 
off from those nearest to him in blood. Who was wrong, 
the father or the son? One was in his grave. Did the 
other still live? In the distance I saw the light of a 
forge. The upper part of the door was open, and the 
sparks were rushing merrily about; I could distinguish 
the figures of the blacksmiths, now glowing with flaming 
color, now paling into black outlines, and the clang of 
their hammers was rythmically distinct. This was no 
vision; it was of the world, and I had no doubt of its 
reality when the course of our journey liid the forge and 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL, 


34 

the flying sparks from my sight. I gazed at my child to 
ascertain whether the picture had made any impression 
upon him. There was no change in his face. It was 
placid and beautiful. 


CHAPTER TI. 

ONLY THROUGH THE ROOE OF FLOWERS WERE THE 
STARS VISIBLE.” 

A SOFT wind was now blowing upon us, and it brought 
upon its wings the sound of organ music. It was very 
sweet, and at no great distance. The volume of sound 
did not increase as we approached nearer; and presently 
it was associated with the harmonious singing of children* 
But gradually the sound, which, for the first few minutes, 
was most melodious and soothing, lifting the soul into a 
region of heavenly contemplation, was disturbed by gentle 
wails, as though the singers were in pain. We walked on 
slowly until there came into view a shadowy porch, the 
entrance to a church of slender silver-barked trees, with 
a roof of vines in flower. So beautiful was the picture, 
and so appropriate for a sacred temple were the trees and 
flowers of which it was built, that I stood before it awhile 
in wonder and delight. My child, pulling _me by the 
hand, aroused me, and we walked through the porch into 
the church. 

It was filled with children, who lay with faces upturned - 
to the flowery roof, through the interlaced branches of 
which a canopy of bright stars could be seen. • I was re- 
joiced at the heavenly light, for it was the first which 
had shone upon us in all our long journey. I stepped 
outside, and looked at the sky. The uight was still dark, 
and I could not penetrate the veil of black clouds which 
hung above me. The church was the center of an aureo- 
la, and only from within, through the roof of flowers. 


CHKISTMAS AKGEL. 


35 

were the stars visible. Ee-entering the building, I dis- 
covered that the singing proceeded from the lips of the 
children, who lay otherwise so still, with white upturned 
faces. More clearly now could I distinguish the soft sighs 
which issued from their bosoms. The music and the 
singing continued. I could not see the organ or the 
player, nor could I fix the spot from which the music 
proceeded. It filled every part of the church, from wall 
to wall, from roof to ground, which I perceived was car- 
peted with velvet moss. The children showed no recogni- 
tion of my presence, and I knelt to observe them more 
closely. I did not need to be told that they had belonged 
in life to the ranks of the very poorest in our cities. 
Bending over them, I said: 

Tell me, little ones, why, in this place and upon 
you alone, the stars are shining which nowhere else are 
visible?’^ 

I paused for a reply, and paused, in vain. 

Will you not speak to me?” I continued. Tell me, 
at least, children, what hymn or dirge you are singing” 
— (for I could not distinguish the words) — “ and why you 
lie so still?” 

They returned no answer, nor did they exhibit any con- 
sciousness of being spoken to. But their silence seemed 
to me to be pregnant with a mysterious significance closely 
touching myself, and in deep distress I looked upward and 
cried: 

‘^Will no one answer me?” 

And through the roof of flowers a star slowly descended, 
and, passing over the faces of the children, finally hovered 
above the form of a girl ten or eleven years of age. Then 
from above I heard a voice: 

‘‘Not to you can the lips of these little ones be un- 
sealed.” 

“Why not to me?” Tasked. 

“ Search your own heart for the answer. What charity, 


36 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


unless inspired by selfish sorrow, would you show to them, 
living? If you desire enlightenment, seek it through your 
child/’ 

I looked entreatingly at my child, oppressed by a fear 
that he might also condemn me. He answered my look 
with a tender smile, and, with a divine pity in his face, 
moved to the side of the girl above whom the star was shin- 
ing and laid his hand upon her lips. 

“ Who were you?” he asked. 

^‘My name was Bess,” answered the motionless figure. 

” Where were you born?” 

‘‘By the side of the river, which used to creep into our 
cellar and bring disease and fever with it.” 

“Why did you not leave it and find a healthier and 
sweeter place to live in?” 

“ It was not possible. Our home was there. We had 
no other.” 

“ Had you. brothers and sisters?” 

“Seven.” 

“Did they all sleep with you in the cellar to which Hm 
river was so cruel?” 

“All of them.” 

“And your mother and father as well?” 

“ Sometimes; not always.” 

“Where is your father now?” 

“ In prison.” 

“When he was a child, was he like you?” 

“ He was like me.” 

“ Did he teach you anything?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What?” 

“ To swear and thieve.” 

“ You did so?” 

“I did so.” 

“ When he was a child, was the teaching he received 
from his parents the same as he imparted to you?” 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL, 


37 


It was the same.’’ 

Was it the same with your mother?” 

‘‘ It was the same.” 

Where is she at the present moment?” 

In a gin palace.” 

‘‘Was she often there when you lived?” 

“Every day and every night.” 

“Did she take you with her?” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ Would you have visited it as frequently had you 
lived?” 

“ Yes. It was so light and gay. Our cellar was dark 
and miserable. The rats came in with the river.” 

“ You had a sister, the eldest of the seven, a young 
and pretty woman. Can you see her now?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where is she?” 

“In the streets of the city, lingering about. 

“What kind of teaching was hers?” 

“ The same as mine; the same as my mother’s,” 

“ What kind of life is she living?” 

“ Do not ask me. Every one knows.” 

“Every one. The high and the low?” 

“ Yes, every one. There is no secret in it.” 

“ Would you have been like her, had you lived?” 

“ I should have been like her.” 

“ It is good you died. You are glad, are you not?” 

“ I am glad. The pain is over. I am saved from 
shame.” 

“ Your companions, those who are lying around you 
now — are they of the same class as yourself?” 

“Yes.” 

“ There are many of you?” 

“ There are thousands of us.” 

At this answer the star’s light was extinguished. 

: The quiet voices of -the child who questioned and the 


38 CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 

child who answered penetrated my heart, and even the 
music and the singing — which continued without inter- 
ruption — sweet as they were, brought no relief to me. 

I clasped my face with my hands; I was conscious that 
every question put by my child had been silently dictated 
by me, and that he was speaking out of my mouth. For 
him to hear what I heard, for him to understand what I 
understood, was a reproach upon me, who had sought the 
meaning of the mystery which lay before me. I removed 
his hand from the lips which had answered him, and 
placed my own upon them as a seal; and the moment I 
did so the singing and the music ceased, and the church, 
with its silver- treed walls and its roof of flowers, melted 
from my sight. 


CHAPTER HI. 

OUT OF UARKHESS INTO LIGHT. 

We were again in the open, and I walked by the side 
of my child, guided, as before, by the light which hov- 
ered about his form. But a sadness had fallen upon my 
heart which the surrounding gloom intensified. My only 
consolation sprung from the presence of my child, and 
from the knowledge that he had led an innocent life, and 
tliat I had done him no wrong. For in the faces of the 
dead children in the flower-crowned church, I had seen 
signs which told unmistakably of evil done to helpless 
babes not only by human neglect and human cruelty, but 
by human blindness and ignorance deep sown in those 
to whom they looked naturally for guidance and teaching. 
Born in the gutters. Let them live there, objects of sus- 
jiicion from their birth, and let them be carefully hedged 
in, so that they shall not soil the clothes of their more 
fortunate brothers and sisters. We legislate for them — 
at a snail’s pace. In the meantime they are human, to 


CHHISTMAS AKGEL. 


39 


"be judged by human laws, to be condemned eternally 
(ninety-nine out of every hundred of them) by voices 
from the pulpits preaching a Christianity beautiful in 
theory and almost dead in practice. And all around 
them is light, which attracts to burn and destroy, as it 
has done for generations, those who have gone before 
them. If they strive to snatch the flowers that grow out- 
side their boundary, if they look with envious eyes upon 
luxury and ease, if they grumble in their rags as they 
shiver with cold, if they doubt that Heaven has ordained 
that they shall want food with plenty all around them — 
what then? If they cry, ‘MVe are, after all, human as 
you are, with human passions and desires, with human 
longings for sweets and pleasures, with human aspirations 
to enjoy the fruit which nature sends,for all ’’ — (not that 
they are likely, from their teaching, to express themselves 
in language so clear and concise; oaths would sometimes, 
vulgarity would always, predominate) — if in any way that 
is open to them they strive to make themselves and their 
longings understood, who shall blame them, and not pro- 
claim himself blind or inhuman? It is not alone human 
bodies that the issues affect; immortal souls are^is deeply, 
if not more deeply, concerned. 

Such thoughts as these came to my mind, out of my al- 
tered mood, and it did not surprise me to see them expressed, 
to some extent, in palpable shape. A luminous light, re- 
sembling the sheen thrown by the moon upon the surface 
and into the depths of peaceful waters, stretched itself be- 
fore me on the level land. It commenced at a distance of 
about twenty feet from where I stood, and the interven- 
ing space and the space beyond it were wrapped in deep 
gloom. The space on either side was also as black as the 
blackest night. And from out of the darkness issued a 
horde of children of both sexes. They were all poorly 
clad, many in rags, and their feet were for the most part 
bare. Traces of suffering were visible in every one of 


40 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


their emaciated bodies. Some crept, some crawled, and 
some, whose minds were preternaturally sharpened, walked 
defiantly, wearing upon their countenances a cunning 
leer it was most painful to see. Some cried for food and 
water, and ever and anon, in the air above them, ripe 
■ fruit appeared, hanging from bush and tree. A few of 
the children, maddened by the temptation, leaped toward 
the fruit and strove to seize it; and, balked in the attempt, 
fell to the ground, maimed and bleeding. They were 
compelled to rise quickly and struggle on as best they 
could, for the crush behind them was so great that, had 
they not looked to themselves, they would have been 
trodden down and sorely hurt. Their misfortunes, how- 
ever, did not deter others from leaping upward to the 
ripe and tempting J^uit, but they fell back in disappoint- 
ment, as those before them had done. And so the march 
and the struggle went on, out of darkness into light, out 
of light into darkness. - In course of time the ranks of 
these poor children began to thin. The strong had gone 
first, pushing their way to the front; the lame, the blind, 
the crooked, were left in the rear. Among them was a 
little lai^p girl, who limped along with the aid of an old 
crutch, which had evidently been cut down to fit her 
diminutive form. She had but two garments on her, 
a petticoat and a frock, and these were in tatters. Around 
the foot which touched the earth as she limped a piece 
of old calico was wrapped; it was blood-stained, and every 
now and then a fresh red spot appeared. It was easy to 
perceive that she was in great physical pain, but she bore 
her sufferings with surprising cheerfulness. So slowly 
did she move that in a little while she was the only one left 
of all the crowd of children who had, as it were, been born 
in darkness, and had passed away in darkness. It was 
only when she was quite alone — a pathetic, patient, suffer- 
ing little figure standing desolate in the line of light — 
that I perceived she had a companion, upon which she 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 


41 


looked down continually with a smile which she tried 
her hardest to make merry. This companion was a mon- 
grel dog, in a worse plight than herself in respect of his 
limbs, for he had but three legs of flesh and bone, the 
fourth being a wooden one, which he managed in a man- 
ner so whimsical that, sad as my mood had been, I could 
not help smiling at the oddity. 

Come along, Spot!” exclaimed the mite of a child, 
and her voice pierced the air with wonderful distinctness. 
“Come along, doggie! It ain’t a bit of good dawdling; 
yer’ll never git on in the world unless yer stir yer stumps.” 

There was not a touch of petulance or anger in her 
tones; the reproaches she conveyed to the sense of her 
humble' companion had in them a ring of exceeding ten- 
derness. 

But where had I heard the voice? It was strangely 
familiar, and yet at the moment I could not recall a dis- 
tinct memory of the hapless little being to^ which it be- 
longed. The name of the dog, too, surely it was not the 
first time it had been mentioned in my hearing! Had 
the waters of forgetfulness passed over me that I could 
not bring the child and her dog clearly to my mind? 

The movements of Spot, as he used his best endeavors 
to “ stir his stumps ” (though Heaven knows they were 
quiclc enough for the strength of his little mistress), were 
so extraordinarily eccentric that I broke out suddenly 
into a fit of hysterical laughter, and notwithstanding that 
I felt it was nothing less than inhuman to laugh at a 
scene so fraught with melancholy features, I could not re- 
strain my mirth. The sounds which issued from my 
cruel throat awoke a myriad mocking echoes in the dark- 
ness, and from every point of surrounding space came 
derisive laughter at the lame girl and her dog. Awe- 
struck at the sounds I had^invoked, I held my muscles in 
control by a powerful effort of will, and when I was silent 
the mocking echoes died away. With remorse in my 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


42 

lieaA I gazed at my child, humble and abashed, expecting 
to meet my punishment in his eyes, but though I plucked 
him by the hand and called to him, he paid no heed to 
me. He was bending eagerly forward, looking at the two 
hapless creatures with^an expression of infinite pity on his 
face. 

Did yer ’ear that, Spot?”, said the girl, who, while 
the laughter continued, had stood quite still, trembling 
with fear. ^‘Did yer ’ear that? I wonder wot they 
meant by it? I thought we was alone. If it’s thieves, 
they can’t git much out of iis, can they? We couldn’t 
raise a copper between the pair on us — wus luck! No 
supper to-night, Spot, for neither on us, and precious 
little to eat all day. Never mind. Better luck to- 
rn orrer. ” 

Spot wagged his tail, and turned his liquid eyes on his 
little mistress. She had not far to stoop, being so short, 
to pat and fondle the dog for his sympathetic glance. 

‘‘If it wasn’t for you. Spot, I should feel awful lonely 
’ere, ’cause it’s a ’underd to one that we’ll ’ave to sleep 
out to-night. It ain’t the fust time, and it won’t be the 
last. But I say. Spot! Suppose it ain’t thieves. It 
might be fairies, who wouldn’t mind doing us a good 
turn. I say, please!” she cried aloud, “we’d be ever so 
grateful to yer, me and Spot would, if yer’d ’elp us on a 
bit! Yer might do wus; upon ray word yer might!” 

It was idle talk on her part, I knew, and only indulged 
in to give Spot a rest, and to help to lighten their weary 
way. I felt that she was imbued with a courage to en- 
dure and make the best of things which was almost 
superhuman in one so weak and attenuated. So she and 
Spot, after she had satisfied herself that there were no 
fairies to assist her, moved onward, every step they took 
being attended with increasing pain. Suddenly, as she 
limj^ed, a sharp stone pierced her foot, and the rag in 
which it was wrapfied became instantly stained with fresh 


CHKISTMAS AIsTGEL. 


43 


blood. Witli a scream of agony she fell to the ground, 
and clasped her foot, her body swaying to and fro, and 
moans of pain escaping from her lips. 

At the sound of these cries of human suffering my child 
ran swiftly from me, and fell down by the side of the girl. 

‘^Charlie, Charlie!” I cried, ^Mvhere are you going? 
What are you about to do?” 

He did not answer me, and I saw him throw his arms 
round the neck of the suffering girl and press his face to 
hers, while Spot stood close, licking the blood, in pity, 
which oozed from the wounded foot. Thus they remained 
for many minutes, and I, who had followed Charlie the 
moment he left me, and now stood by the side of the 
children, had no power to separate them. The will to do 
so was mine, but I seemed not free to exercise it, and I 
stood rooted to the spot upon which I stood. Soft sobs 
escaped from Charlie’s breast, and it shocked me to ob- 
serve that his face and dress were soiled either from the 
long journey we had taken, or from contact with the child 
whose suffering cries had drawn him to her. The flowers 
which had been gathered for him by his brothers were 
gone, and some had dropped from his waistband on the 
road; the few that were left were withered. A change, 
too, had come upon his face; it was pinched with want, 
and had grown much older, and a pang shot through my 
heart as I detected in it certain signs of resemblance to 
the faces of the phantom children who had hungered for 
the fruit which had hung above them, and which they 
had vainly striven to seize. How, and in what way, had 
this come about? Could it be possible that there was any 
kind of kinship, in circumstance if not in blood, between 
my child and those unfortunates? It was a monstrous, 
incredible fancy, but I could not shake it off. It remained 
with me to torture me and to fill me with an agony of un- 
rest. But Charlie and the girl were speaking now; and 
what passed between them claimed my attention. So in- 


44 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


thralled had she been by the pain from her wound that 
she could not look into the face of the dear lad who had 
flown to her in sympathy. Her pain being lessened, she 
wiped the tears from her eyes, which until now had been 
blinded by them, and turned to her consoler and recog- 
nized him. 

‘‘Why, Charlie,’^ she cried, in a tone of surprised de- 
light, “ is it you? — is it really, really you?” 

“ Yes, Molka,” he replied. “I am so sorry for you! 
Are you still in pain?” 

“No, Charlie, no!” she exclaimed; “it’s nothink, 
nothink! YouWemoito worry over it. I do believe I 
was shamming.” 

“No, Molka,” he said, “your pain was real, your cries 
were real, or I should not have come to you. I heard you, 
from afar off, such a long, long way from here! Let me 
bind up your foot.” He lifted it on his lap, and cried, 
“ Oh, Molka, Molka!” 

“ Yer mustn’t make a fuss over me, Charlie! But ’ow 
good of yer to come — ’ow good of yer to come! Wotever 
’ave I done to deserve it?” 

“You are my one friend,” he said. “ I can never for- 
get you, Molka — never! I can thank you now, perhaps,” 
he added, softly, “ I can help you now.” 

“Wot are yer doing of?” she said, holding his hand, in 
which was a fragment of his white dress, which he had torn 
away to bind round her foot. “ Yer mustn’t tear yer 
pritty dress for me! No, no, Charlie, yer mustn’t!” 

He gently removed her hand. 

“ Let me be, Molka. I will do what is right. There! 
Does that make it a little easier?” 

“ It is well, Charlie. Quite, quite well! Your ’and is 
so cool and sweet, it ’as ’ealed me already. Don’t mind 
my crying a bit; I cant ’elp it, and it’ll do me good. But 
to think of it,” she said, when she had mastered her 
tears. “That you and me should be ’ere together! Well, 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 


45 


of all the things as ever ’appened! And Spot! wo mustn’t 
forgit Spot. ’Ere he is, Charlie; so tired, so tired! — tireder 
nor me a good bit. But Spot’s the kind of dawg as never 
ses die; rather than run away from me and look arter 
’isself, he’d limp by my side till he dropped down dead. 
Wouldn’t yer, Spot? He thinks I ain’t able to take care 
of myself since I got run over the same as he was. I told 
yer a lot about Spot in the gardens, Charlie?” 

Yes, Molka.” 

That was the last day I sor yer — and oh, I did miss 
yer so! I thought of yer all the time, Charlie. I couldn’t 
come to you ’cause of my accident, and you couldn’t come 
to me ’cause yon was so ill; You’re better now, aren’t 
yer?” 

Yes,” he replied, I am better now.” 

There was in his voice a grave and tender sweetness 
such as I had never heard from other lips. It was as 
though his heart was speaking, and not his tongue. In all 
its inflections and modulations, in every word he uttered, 
this tender sweetness was its dominant quality. 

That day,” said Molka, when Mr. Alablaster was 
in the gardens — you remember it, Charlie?” 

‘‘1 remember it,” he responded. 

“1 was telling yer of Spot, and that 1 would bring ’im 
to see yer when he got well. I thought arterward what 
a sel^sh little cat I was not to promise to give ’im to yer, 
but I couldn’t bring it over my ’eart to part with ’im. ’Im 
and me, we only ’ad each other, but I ought to ’ave done 
it, Charlie, to try and make yer well.” 

am well without it, Molka. And Spot and I are 
going to be great friends. He likes me already, you see.” 

^^Spot likes everybody as gives me a kind word. 
Yer’d ’ardly believe the sense he’s got. He didn’t ’ave a 
wooden leg then, Charlie, Jbut a friend of Mr. Alablaster’s, 
a young doctor as does operations and was going out to 


46 


CHKISTMAS Al^GEL. 


Australia, come to wish Mr. Alablaster good-bye, and Mr, 
Alablaster sends for me and Spot-. Wlien the doctor sor 
Spot he fell a-laiighing to that degree I thought he’d 
never stop. I didn’t mind ’im laughing, for I sor he 
didn’t mean any ’arm by ir. Sich a handsome young 
gentleman, Charlie, and that good and clever that I ain’t 
got a word to put to it! While he’s laughing. Spot gits 
a-licking of ’is ’and, and a-looking up in ’is face, as much 
as to say, ^You know all about legs; can’t yer do some- 
think for me?’ Would yer believe it, Charlie? The doc- 
tor — he wasn’t more nor eighteen, and he ’ad the loveliest 
eyes and ’air that ever was seen — he understands Spot, he 
does, and he ses, ‘It’s my opinion,’ he ses, ‘that the 
dawg’s arksing me to make ’im a wooden leg; and by 
Jove’ — yes, Charlie, he ses, ‘and by Jove, I’ll make ’im 
one!’ And he does, Charlie. He lays Spot on the table, 
and measures ’im, and studies ’im, and a couple o’ days 
arter he comes with a strap and a leg, and fixes it on 
Spot, and is as proud of the job as if he’d done it for the 
Queen of England ’erself. If he’d arksed me to pay ’im 
for it I couldn’t ha’ done it, but I think Mr. Alablaster 
made it up to ’im some’ow. Yer never see nothink so 
comic, Charlie, in all yer born days, as Spot when he first 
begun to walk with ’is wooden leg. He’d take three soft 
steps and a pat, and stop like a bit o’ stone to find out 
where the noise come from. Then he’d, begin agin, and 
stop agin, and put out ’is wooden leg and bark at it, and 
run round and round arter it till he got giddy, and fell 
down all of a ’eap. But he’s got used to it now, and is as 
proud of it as if it was made of gold and dymens.” 

“Ho you live in the same place, Molka?” 

“Yes, in Pentecost; and Bold Peggy, too, and Blossie; 
they’re all there. It’s time for me to be gitting on; I’m 
ever so much better. Jest afore you come, Charlie, I was 
frightened; I ’eerd a lot of people laughing at me and 
mocking me. I dohT know now what it could ha’ been. 


CHKISTMAS Ai^GEL. 47 

but it sounded very cruel; for wot is there to laugh at in 
me, eh, Charlie?” 

‘‘Ah, what indeed?” sighed Charlie, as he assisted 
Molka to rise. “Are you obliged to walk with a crutch?” 

“ Can’t git along without one. Can’t git along very 
well with one,” she added, with a touch of her old hu- 
mor; “but now you^ve come, luck’ll turn per’aps. At 
first I thought them voices was thieves; then I thought 
they was fairies, and I called out to ’em. I don’t want 
no fairies now, Charlie; I’ve got a angel for a friend,” 

At this moment I heard a cry of distress and pain, 
some twenty or thirty yards from where I stood, and 
without thought I turned in its direction. It proceeded 
from a woman, who, with a heavy child in her arms, was 
leaning against a hedge. She was young and fair, and in 
a sad state from long and weary travel, and, as her words 
implied, from poverty. 

“ For the love of God, sir, assist me!” 

“In what way can I assist you?”,.' I asked, bitterly. 

Do you not see that I am as poor as yourself?” 

These words were wrung from me by the sudden knowl- 
edge that came upon me that my clothes were ragged, 
worn by long travel, as the woman’s were, and that my 
pockets were empty. 

“You area man,” she said, in a pleading tone; “if 
you can’t give me money or food, yon can lend me a help- 
ing hand on my way. I am ready to die with fatigue. 
Carry the child for me for a few minutes.” 

“ I have a suffering child of my own,” I said, with no 
feeling of sympathy pr charity foi’ her, “ who needs all 
my care. Let every one look after his own; it is a suffi- 
cient burden. I have already left my child too long.” 

“ Do not leave me alone, sir,” she pleaded; “ I am 
utterly worn out.” 

I paid no further heed to her, and returned to the spot 
on which I had left Charlie and Molka. To my conster- 


48 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


nation I could not find tliem. I called for Charlie, and 
searched for him in eyery direction; I called also for Mol- 
ka. I tore frantically from place to place; but all myeiforts 
were vain. The mocking echoes alone responded to my cries, 
as they responded to the laughter drawn from me by Mol- 
ka’s sufferings. 

Woman,” I exclaimed, for she had followed me, and 
had gazed on me in silence during my ineffectual search? 

this is your work! But for you I should not have left 
my child; but for you I should not have lost him.” 

What had I to do with it?” she demanded, gloomily 
and wearily. I cried because I was in pain. Is that a 
crime? I never set eyes on you before, and I don’t care 
if I never set eyes on you again. As for your child, what 
is he to me? Let every one look after his own; it is a 
sufficient burden. Mine is more than sufficient.” 

Though the , words were my own, their callousness 
chilled my heart. I continued my search. Charlie, 
Charlie!” I called; come back to me! Where have you 
gone? What have I done that you should desert me?” 

It added to my distress that I knew not in what part of 
the country I was. The forests of trees, the wide expanse 
of fields, the fragrant lanes and hedges, and all the other 
signs of rural life by which I had been surrounded, had 
disappeared. 

'^Charlie, is it?” said the woman. 

It is my child’s name,” I said, in grief and bewilder- 
ment. 

You mentioned another. Was it Molka?” 

Yes, a beggar child, who has wickedly lured my boy 
away.” 

‘‘ Nonsense; time enough for that; yon must wait till 
they’re grown up. Where have you come from?” 

‘^From the city. We must be many a .^core of miles 
from it,” 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


49 


‘‘ You are out of your, senses. Thei^ is the city; you 
can see the lights.” 

I gazed in the direction of her outstretched finger* 
The lights of the city were gleaming in the distance. " 

‘^Do you know the city?” I asked. 

Too well, too well!” she moaned. have been in 
the country, trying to get work. I could not find it, and 
I am driven back.” 

Driven back! To what part of the city? To the 
poorer quarters, of course. What other for such as she? 
Charlie and Molka were there. It was there I must seek 
my child. 

Can you tell me where Pentecost is?” I asked. 

I am going to the place,” she replied. ‘‘If you will 
carry my baby a bit, I will take you there.” 

I took the baby from her, and walked by her side to- 
ward the shining lights, in the center of which lay the 
courts and alleys of Pentecost. 

o 

BOOK TEE THIRD. 

WOODLAND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER I. 

“TRUE TO HER, TO THE LAST HOUR OF HIS LIFE.” 

Ah afternoon service in the Abbey. A famous divine 
from the country had obtained permission to occupy the 
pulpit, and, minister of Him who came to preach peace 
and good-will to man, was delivering a sermon on Glory 
to a fashionable and distinguished audience. He was an 
eloquent man, and spoke fluently and well, and perhaps 
in all the vast congregation there was but one who did not 
approve of his utterances; but even this man, single 


50 , CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 

though he might have been in the side he took, followed 
the preacher with genuine interest, and while he quar- 
reled with the matter, approved of the manner and the 
polished style. 

This silent dissentient was Mr. Alabaster. 

The occasion of the afternoon service was a popular one. 
In a far-off land a great victory had been gained by our 
troops, in which blood had been shed like water and thou- 
sands of lives sacrificed. That those against whom we 
warred were fighting a battle which, were their cause ours, 
we should have deemed saintly and heroic, was not 
the point of view from which the audience of the Eev. 
Mr, Birley (who, if he lived, would in all human proba- 
bility one day be a bishop) regarded the subject. We 
had fought, we had conquered — glory be to God! Which, 
to Mr. Alabaster and to some other few who declined to 
take the popular side as a matter of course, judging such 
matters from the widest standpoint— say, for instance, 
from the standpoint of universal humanity — might have 
been considered paradoxical, inasmuch as we were glorify- 
ing ourselves, and as our foes, having a very sincere 
religion of their own to which they clung with all their 
might and main, were calling on God at the same time to 
smite us hip and thigh, and pour desolation on our heads. 
But the reverend gentleman’s audience were satisfied and 
gratified; his resonant, noble voice stirred their hearts; 
the music of psalm and anthem" rolled solemnly through 
the grand old aisles; sculptured monuments recording our 
greatness, no less than the ashes of the mighty dead, 
sanctified the service; and when it was ended they filed 
slowly out of the A.bbey, blinded by a glamour which they 
falsely believed was derived from Divine light. 

Half an hour afterward the Kev. Mr. Birley himself 
left the Abbey, and stood for a moment or two gazing 
toward the bridge which, when starlight and moonlight 
are shining on it, is one of the most picturesque sights in 


CHRISTMAS AIs-GEL. 


51 


Europe. Of all the numerous audience who had hung 
upon his words only one remained. This v/as Mr. Ala- 
baster, who had lingered with fixed intent, and who, when 
the reverend gentleman paused, went quietly forward and 
stood by his side. 

The Eev. Mr. Birley did not observe him, but when, 
his brief contemplation over, he moved slowly away and 
Mr. Alabaster moved in the direction he was taking, his 
attention was arrested, and he gazed at the person who 
had thus intruded himself. 

His observation at first was slight and carelessly bestow- • 
ed, but no sooner had he turned his eyes away than, ani- 
mated by a perplexing fancy in nowise disagreeable, he 
directed them again upon Mr. Alabaster, who now re- 
turned his gaze, and smiled. 

Is it possible?” exclaimed the Rev. Mr. Birley. 

Quite possible,” replied Mr. Alabaster, still smiling; 

indeed, a veritable matter of fact; and I hope,” he added, 
his smile vanishing, not unwelcome because of these.” 

The words were accompanied by a motion of his hand 
toward his clothes, which were very common. 

‘^You can not so misjudge me,” said the Rev. Mr, 
Birley; ‘Mt was never in your nature — ” 

And is not,” quickly interrupted Mr. Alabaster. I 
am unchanged.” 

I am cordially glad to see you,” said Mr. Birley, offer- 
ing his hand, which Mr. Alabaster warmly shook; ‘‘but 
indeed, it is like opening a pagein the dead past.” 

“ Is that your idea?” asked Mr. Alabaster. “ For me 
there is no dead past; it lives, as the present does, and the 
future.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Birley, “ still the same — still the same. 
No other man, in my experience, ever talked as you talk. 
Tlie same old turns of speech, with meanings in your 
words which must be hidden from all who know you not 
as I know you. How long since we met, Richard?” 


52 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


Twenty years.” 

So long! Yes, it must be that; a life-time, Eichard. 
You pointed to your clothes. Explain them.” 

“ The humbleness of them? Do they not explain them- 
selves? I am poor.” 

You state that cheerfully enough. You were rich 
when last we met.” 

Y^es.” 

‘‘ You have been unfortunate; you have lost your fort- 
une?” 

Every penny of it. Stay, though — it is best to be 
precise. It is gone, but it would not be quite truthful to 
say I lost it. The fact is, I have invested it.” 

‘‘ Ah,” said Mr. Birley, with a brisk air of relief, then 
there is still a chance.” 

Of my being rich again?” asked Mr. Alabaster, with 
an amused smile. 

^^That is my hope, Eichard.” 

Banish it. Every penny of my fortune is irretriev- 
ably gone; and were I to inherit another, or were an- 
other to drop from the clouds to-morrow into my pockets, 
I should be as poor in twelve months as I am to-day. To 
speak honestly, Birley, I should invest it as I have invest- 
ed my last.” 

‘‘You speak honestly — you could not do otherwise — 
but, to my understanding, enigmatically. Come, 
Eichard, be frank with me. I am genuinely glad to meet 
you — I am genuinely glad to renew our old friendship. 
Tell me about yourself. What has brought you to this 
pass? Can I woo your confidence— if you are reluctant 
to give it, for T am aware that in certain forms of poverty 
there exists a pride most difficult to overcome — by telling 
you something of my career?” 

“I know it, Birley. I have watched it, and sought 
knowledge of it, during all these silent years. Except in 
so far as your inner life is concerned, you can not enlighten 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 


53 


me. You are on the high-road, Birley, outwardly. Your 
rise has been steady and sure, and I do not know the 
world if this day has not set the seal upon it.” 

‘‘ Were you in the Abbey, then?” asked Mr. Birley, 
with a flush of pride. 

Yes. You preached most eloquently, and you pro- 
duced a deep impression.” 

You approved of my words?’ 

‘‘ Hardly that. I congratulate you on your appearance 
in that noble pile, and on the success you obtained — 
though there is a theatrical smack about the whole thing 
— but I most heartily condemn the occasion and the 
theme.” 

Well, well,” said Mr. Birley, good-humoredly, we 
will not discuss it. Our views, as well as our natures, 
are fixed and formed, and it would be a most difficult 
matter — indeed, I should say impossible — to make us differ- 
ent from what we are. So, old friend, we will agree to 
differ, and not waste time, and perhaps temper, on fight- 
ing an unprofitable battle. As the tree is rooted, so it 
must grow.” 

Ah,” said Mr. Alabaster, quickly and with something 
of eagerness, ‘‘you believe that — you admit that?” 

“ Undoubtedly. It is a natural law?” 

“ Applicable to all? That is your firm conviction, Birley? 
I may tell you it is mine.” 

“And mine — so we are in unison upon one point.” 

“ You will not forget your words,” said Mr. Alabaster, 
with a singular look ; “you will not fly from them?” 

“No, indeed. What occasion can arise for repudiating 
them? Grive me credit for consistency at least, Richard.” 

“I will — and do, Birley. Only— only,” he added, with 
a strange smile, “ my thoughts at times rush swiftly on, 
and I often detect myself engaged in the process of match, 
ing present words with future acts. Frequently they 
clash, giving each other the lie. Birley, I should not 


54 


C'HHISTMAS ANGEL. 


be doing yon justice if I did not express my grati- 
fication at your conduct in this meeting of ours. Poor- 
ly as I am dressed, you do not appear to be ashamed of 
being seen in friendly converse with me.’’ 

^^It would ill become my cloth,” said Mr. Birley grave- 
ly, to act otherwise, and it would be a blot upon my 
manhood to so deal by a friendship such as ours. And 
now tell me about yourself. What is the real meaning 
of this outward change in you? — for inwardly you are 
still the same. You are poor — will you let me assist you? 
I am not without influence, and the way before me is 
fairly smooth. Come, Richard, you will let me do this 
for old times’ sake. It will be a favor granted from you 
to me. I can get you a secretaryship — a good one, with 
emoluments. We shall then see much of each other, but 
not more thanY desire. Do you live near here?” 

“I live within the shadow of the Abbey. You will 
come to my home?” 

Certainly. T shall be in London for some little while, 
and I hope we shall spend many hours together.” 

“ I shall hold you to your promise. For your offers 
of assistance I thank you cordially, but, in the way you 
indicate, I shall not be able to avail myself of them. I 
may ask you for assistance in another direction — say iii 
the direction of your purse, if you can afford to lose a tri- 
fle. Not for myself — for others. You wish me to tell you 
about myself. I will do so without circumlocution.” 

A word, in explanation. 

I, Charlie’s father, had been in the Abbey during the 
service, and was present at this interview, and heard every 
word that passed. My presence was not noticed or com- 
mented upon. Like an invisible shadow, possessed of un- 
derstanding, I walked by the side of these two men. 
There are scenes in the future to be portrayed, of which 


CHRISTMAS Ais’-GEL. 


5o 


I was also a silent witness, and in which, though they 
most nearly and dearly affected me, I was powerless to 
take part. 

Looking in the glass, I see myself a gray-haired man, 
meanly dressed, with deep furrows in my face. I live in 
Pentecost, in one room, occupied by Charlie and myself. 
This room is above Mr. Alabaster’s shop, in which he dis- 
penses his herbs and simples. My fortune has melted 
away; the position I held in the world is lost, and I 
have been driven into the ranks of the poor, whom 1 
loathe and despise. At one time of my life I had a fair 
share of toleration for them, though I would never admit 
that they were intended to be my equals; but now that I 
am brought down to their level I shrink from them and 
abhor them! For my own sake? No; for my dear Char- 
lie’s sake, who is compelled to herd with them, and who, 
being now a man, is not what I hoped he would be, a gen- 
tleman, with a proper recognition of the distance which 
should separate him from those so far beneath him. It ig 
a torture to me that he does not share my views — that 
he exhibits an affection for the people I despise. When 
I argue with him, and endeavor to impress upon him tlie 
truths which I recognize as established by natural law, he 
listens in silence. He irritates me by not answering me, 
and it has happened that I have allowed my irritation to 
display itself in angry words. Even this has not moved 
him; with angelic sweetness and patience he has smiled 
upon me, and held my hand, and pressed it to his lips. 

Who is more likely to be right?” I have cried. 

You, a child, unread in the world’s wisdom — or I, your 
father, who have calmly and sensibly reasoned out these 
conditions of life?” 

am no longer a child, dear father 3 ” he replies. 
am a man.” 

‘‘Yes, my dear son is a man, with a beauty in his face 
which^istinguishes him above those with whom he as- 


56 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


sociates. By what mischance is he so misplaced? On 
this point he has something to say.” 

I can not help it, fathrer, nor can you.” 

I doubt, if he had the power, whether he w’ould 
change his condition. He seems content, and so imbued 
with a divine compassion for his comrades that he would 
find it difficult to tear himself away from them. How 
gladly would I do so, if the opportunity offered itselfl 
How I hate this mean and sordid life, these narrow 
courts, these creatures that I see around me, this room 
in which I can scarcely breathe! What crime have I 
been guilty of that a lot so wretched should be thrust 
upon me? I lash myself, and inflict fresh torture upon 
myself, daily and hourly; and from my dear son, who is 
all I have now in the world to cling to, receive no sympa- 
thy. 

His love is being stolen from me. He says it is not so, 
but I know that it is, that it must be so. When love is 
divided, it can not but be weakened. 

My father ever!” with his arm thrown caressingly 
around me; my own dear, dear father, whom I shall 
always love and honor!” 

But, Charlie,” I say, there have been times when 
you have left me for others. When you were a child, and 
we had taken a long journey together, you deserted me 
for Molka. It was only by chance that I came to Pente- 
cost, and found you.” 

He replies that it could not have been by chance, and 
he begs me, with tears in his eyes, not to pursue the sub- 
ject, but to be satisfied with his love. If it were mine, 
and mine only, I should be happy, but when I see him 
gazing at Molka with full- hearted eyes, and when I know 
that he would follow her to the world’s end — 

I must not think of it. It maddens me with jealousy. 

She stands before me now in her common cotton gown 
and patched boots. In the time gone by Mr. Alabaster 


CHKISTMAS AJs^GEL. 


57 


warned me that she would be likely to grow into rare 

beauty, and his words have come true. Poor as she is, 

con\mon as she is, ignorant as she is, I can not deny that 

she is very beautiful. She has her dog Spot still with 

her, and the novelty of its wooden leg has worn away, 
except to strangers, who, either for the dog’s sake or be- 
cause of Molka’s beauty, bestow charity upon the girl. 
And she accepts it, unblushingly accepts it, without feel- 
ing the degradation. 

What else can she do?” asks Charlie, when I condemn 
her. Has she not been brought up so? She has tried 
service, and has been turned away because of her weakness 
and lameness. She has sold flowers in the streets, but there 
are numbers of girls so much stronger than she, doing the 
same thing, that she can not get back the money she pays 
for them. There’s Bold Peggy — she is stout-limbed, 
saucy, bold, deflan t, and can push her way along. She 
sells out, and comes home singing, while Molka creeps 
along with her faded roses in her hands, and her beauti- 
ful face as white as the face of a statue. Molka is modest 
and fragile, trustful, tender, and affectionate. Bold Peg, 
gy thinks only of herself, and will idle her time with any 
man who pays her a compliment. In your heart, father, 
which do you think the better? Hot that I blame Peggy, 
poor girl, for she knows no better, and has been taught no 
better.” 

In my heart,” I reply, I hate them both!” 

You should not say so, father,” says Charley, ‘^and 
would not, if you had not some deep cause for anxiety in 
which neither Polka nor Peggy has a share.” 

It is not of Peggy that we were speaking,” I say, 
morosely; I have no fear of her on your account. But 
that you should espouse the cause of a beggar such as 
Molka is, of a girl who trades upon her weakness and 
upon yours, who was born in igorance and vice — ” 
Heaven knows what I should have said in my anger 


58 


CHEISTMAS A^TGEL. 

bad not Charlie, fearing perhaps what was likely to 
come, put his hand on my mouth and stopped me 
with the words. 

No more, father. In justice to yourself, in pity 
for me, in mercy to Molka, say no more. My fate is 
bound up in hers irrevocably, and I will be true to 
her to the last hour of my life!” 


CHAPTER II. 

^^LIFE SANCTIFIED BY HUMANITY’.” 

story,” said Mr. Alabaster to the Reverend Mr. 
Birley, shall be brief. I was twenty-five when we 
parted — you, having taken orders, to commence the real 
work of life, according to your lights, I to enjoy life, 
according to mine. I was rich, yon were poor. In the 
world’s eyes, you have risen and I have fallen. I have 
my own views of that rise and fall, and you, who see 
that I am unchanged, and who have doubtless some re- 
membrance of certain daring propositions, in which I 
used to indulge — somewhat reversing the usual order of 
things — would scarcely be surprised to hear from my 
lips that in my judgment it is you who have fallen, and 
I who have risen. God forbid that I should lay claim 
to distinction for living what I believe to be a right 
life! You spoke a few minutes ago of the pride of pov- 
erty. That, in my eyes, is pardonable. Not so the 
pride that sometimes springs from humility, whicjb is as 
bad as the rich man’s pride that springs from possess- 
ing more than his neighbor.” 

‘‘ I observe,” said Mr. Birley, ‘‘ that you scarcely take 
into account the lessons of civilization.” 

‘‘I take a wider view than that imposed upon us by 
phrases. The true lessons of civilization, in my under- 


CHKISTMAS AN^OEL. 


59 


standing, are, or should be, rooted in the heart of hu- 
manity. That every man willing to work should be- able 
to provide food for himself and those dependent upon 
him — that I conceive to be a true lesson of civilization. 
That we should look with abhorrence, instead of tolera- 
tion (I use a mild term), upon rich men who have ob- 
tained riches by unworthy means — that I conceive to be a 
true lesson of civilization. The strength of a true civil- 
ization lies in its moral as well as in its material fibers. 
That when we behold suffering ignorance, unmerited deg- 
radation in our midst, we should hasten to provide a 
remedy, not lag as legislation is in the habit of doing — 
that I conceive to be a true lesson of civilization. But I 
am prosing upon generalities, when I should be speaking 
of myself. Behold me, then, setting out to enjoy life at 
the time you were commencing your career. You are 
aware that a great fortune had fallen to me; it had to be 
spent, and, intoxicated by possession of wealth, I was 
twisted out of my natural self. For a very little while, I 
am thankful to say. I was arrested on the threshold, and 
the teacher was love. It was my happiness to make the 
acquaintance of a pure and noble woman; her father was 
poor, and had, like me, been rich; and he it was who 
had instilled into Mary’s soul that spirit of large hu- 
manity which sanctifies life. In bis youth he had learned 
many accomplishments; in his old age one of these en- 
abled him to subsist. He gave lessons in music during 
the day, and occupied a humble position in the orchestra 
of a theater during the night. He had squandered his 
money foolishly in the world’s judgment, nobly in mine. 
There is enshrined to-day in the hearts of the people the 
memory of a dead hero — a victorious soldier who, by pur- 
suing the usual course, might have gained titles, honors? 
houses,' lands, but who found his most exquisite pleasures 
in the ranks of the poorest of poor children whom he res" 
cued, housed, fed, and taught, and sent out into the 


60 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


world, fitly armed for life’s battle, some to distant lands, 
where mortals are, not forced to live like rats. They 
blessed him living, they bless him dead! Duty and char- 
ity were his watchwords, and he lived and died a poor 
man. No monument needs he in stone; from his ashes a 
.tree has risen which shall be forever in flower, and shall 
be an incentive to good deeds in the future. I, who knew 
him not, honor and revere him as one among the many ^ 
who understood and carried out the true lessons of hu- i 
manity. My Mary’s father, though only a poor musi- 
cian, resembled this hero. He invested his money as I 
afterward invested mine, not for interest, but for human 
good — not always, but sometimes, fruitfully. Can you 
understand me — a little? No happier man than he ever 
drew breath. He lived in a perfect faith, and he died 
with a smile on his lips. Before he died he in- 
stilled into me something of his own spirit, although, as 
I stand here, I feel, in comparison with him, my weakness 
and impotence. But intercourse with him, and the brief 
spell of happiness I enjoyed with Mary, have had, I know, 
a purifying influence. Birley, it is not by man’s words 
that he shall be judged — it is by his deeds. You are an 
eloquent preacher, and can move not only your congre- 
gation but yourself to tears. Does your duty end there? 
Who said, and to whom was it said, ‘ Sell all ye have and 
give to the poor’? A poor priest faithfully fulfilling his 
duties is a grand spectacle. He is treading the right path. 
These matters were freely discussed by Mary’s father and 
myself, and Mary would sit by and listen in silent ap- 
proval. 

“ ‘ Do not wait long for your union,’ he said to us on 
his death-bed. ‘ Losing me, Mary has only you for her 
rock. Use your wealth worthily.’ 

‘‘We knew what he meant by that, and a month after 
he was buried Mary and I were wed. We had three years 
of such happiness as seldom falls to the lot of mortals. 


CHRISTMAS AH GEL. 


61 


We did not remoye from the poor neighborhood in which 
Mary and her father had lived, and there she walked and 
passed her days, a ministering angel, who took sunshine 
with her into every humble home she entered. She died 
in giving birth to a baby boy, who survived her hut a few 
hours. I sat in the chamber of death and vowed to con- 
tinue the good work without fear of my future. Her 
spirit was with me then; it is with me now; it cheered and 
upheld me in my loneliness. The years that followed 
were nob dark or gloomy. Life is short, and there is a 
/hereafter. I will not dwell upon the details of my task. 
Suffice it that within a few years all my great fortune was 
gone. My only regret is that 1 had not another to send 
after it on the same errand. But had I a hundred such 
it would not have been sufficient for the need, the awful, 
fateful need, I saw around me. Some little good 1 was 
enabled to do, for Mary’s sake, and I am thus far content. 
But I must confess that when I behold evidences of ex- 
travagance and waste incurred in the purchase of selfish, 
fashionable pleasures, I regard them as nothing less than 
sinful, knowing as I know to what sweet uses the money 
thus poured out might be applied. We live in an un- 
thinking age. I am convinced that you can not be aware 
of the terrible condition of thousands upon thousands of 
the population of this city of light and darkness, of hol- 
low gayety and gloomy despair. I will even pass over 
physical suffering. Birley, do you believe in the salvation, 
of souls? Bear in mind your own words, ^ As the tree is 
rooted so it must grow.’ These words are a fatal indorse- 
ment of others set down by an earnest writer, who said 
that if what preachers preach be true souls are lost by force 
of circumstance.” 

‘‘Terrible words, indeed,” said Mr. Birley, more moved 
than he cared to show. Kichard, do you know what 
strikes me in you?” 

“ Tell me.” 


62 


CHEISTMAS AXGEL. 


“ That you use too iu tense a ligiit in the views you 
take.” 

Do you think so? Well, come and judge for your- 
self. Here is my address. I will not detain you longer. 
If, in your opinion, I have really been too warm in the ad- 
vocacy of my cause, forgive me.” 


CHAPTER HI. 

FRESH FROM THE FIELD OF GLORY.” 

It is not only on battle-fields that glory is sought. 
The British soldier in the land of his birth, safe from 
war’s alarms, seeks for it at the bottom of pewter pots. 
This search was being assiduously made in the Pig and 
Whistle by three red-coats who had come home from the 
battle-field, and who at the present moment were more 
fluslmd with beer than victory. The hero of the party 
was Blossie, 

A man full-grown, with muscles like iron, and flesh as 
firm as a rock. The profession of chewing straws, which 
had been his father’s before him, and which he had de- 
clared should be his as long us he lived, had served w^ell 
enough during his boyhood, eked out by acts over which 
let a veil be drawn, but had proved utterly inefiicient for 
subsistence when he became a man. He came perforce into 
communication with police and‘ magistrates in ways which 
augured ill for his future, which Mr. Alabaster would have 
forecast with tolerable fidelity had not Blossie, in a fit of 
providential intoxication, fallen into the clutches of ar re- 
cruiting-sergeant on Westminster Bridge, who, having 
done a bad business lately, was only too eager to bag any 
kind of fish without regard to quality,thatcame to his net. 
Before he knew where he was, Blossie had taken the Queen’s 
shilling, and, w^aking from his drunken fit, found himself 
a soldier in the British army. 


CHRISTMAS AXGEL. 


65 


He was not a good soldier, but he was such a finely 
framed man that the drill-sergeants, for their own credit’s 
sake, took pains with him, and succeeded in reducing the 
unpromising material to some kind of order. He was not 
allowed to chew straws on parade, but he chewed them 
industriously when he was off duty, and after some months 
of rebellion, during which he was frequently punished, the 
conviction was forced upon him that for his own ease and 
comfort it was best to be tractable. Showy and attractive 
as was his outside, and jauntily as he bore himself, his 
moral nature exhibited no improvement; he was thorough^ 
ly base at heart. 

This was of small account. He had been in victorious 
battle; his regiment had distinguished itself, as the phrase 
runs, and he came home, with those of his comrades who 
had not been cut to pieces, covered with glory. Was it 
not for him that the afternoon service had been held in 
the Abbey? Was it not for him that the solemn anthem 
had rolled through the grand old aisles, that the earnest 
preacher had worked himself into a fit of eloquent enthu«' 
thusiasm, that hearts had been lifted up and fervid tears 
been shed? That the lion will lie down with the lamb, is 
lessAikely at the present day than at any period of the 
world’s history. Christianity and civilization appear to 
be the deadliest of foes. 

Properly speaking, Blossie should have been in the Ab- 
bey, listening with swelling soul to the sermon in his 
honor preached by the Eeverend Mr. Birley. But Blossie 
preferred the Pig and Whistle. Hear to his heart were 
the slums of Pentecost. On the battle-field, from which 
he was only too glad to escape without a scar, in the preg- 
nant, solemn nights, when all surrounding circumstances 
should have inthralled him with awe, his thoughts eter- 
nally wandered to the courts and alleys of Pentecost, the 
very palace of vice, with its unhealthy houses and poison- 
ed drains, all his fond desires converging, upon the tap of 


^4 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


the Pig and Whistle. I’ll have a rare old booze when 
i get there,” he murmured, as he gazed up at the starry 
heavens, and thought of Bold Peggy, and Molka, and all 
his dear old pals. 

They were around him now, and he, pot in hand, was 
boasting of his deeds, as he gazed in admiration now at 
^ Bold Peggy and now at Molka’s delicate and beautiful 
■ face. I knew why Charlie had dragged me to this den. 

' His magnet was Molka, and he, also, was gazing at her, 
but in trouble and sadness, for her eyes were fixed upon 
Blossie, and she was drinking in his words. His skin 
was bronzed, his eyes were bright, his words were ap- 
propriate to the understanding of his hearers. His 
soldier life had improved him in appearance, and all 
Pentecost was proud of its hero; his two comrades, upon 
whom the dregs served out as beer in the Pig and 
Whistle had already produced their natural effect, leaned 
for support against the bar, and gave a maudlin approval 
of Blossie’s brag. 

I ‘MVot a brick you are?” exclaimed Bold Peggy. ‘^I’d 
' give-sometliink if you was going with us to-morrer.” 

‘^Whereto?” 

We’er going to ’ave a day in ..the country. There’s a 
swell friend of Mr. Alablaster — 

Old Alablastim,” interrupted Blossie. Wot’s ’im 
and ’is swell friend been up to?” 

They’re standing treat for an excursion. Vans and 
flags, and all that. It ’ll be a reg’lar spree, Blossie. ’Ow 
I wish you was going with us!” 

“Why do yer wish it so pertickyerlerly, Peggy,” in- 
’quired Blossie, with a vain chuckle. “’Cause yer want a 
soldier boy for a sweet’eart?” 

“I shouldn’t mind,” said Bold Peggy, with no attempt 
at shyness. 

“That’s the style for me,”'said Blossie, and began to 
sing:-^ 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


65 


“ ‘ Sure there’s not a trade that’s going 
Worth the knowing or the showing 
Like that to glory going 
Of the bold soldier boy!’ ” 

And nearly every one in front of the bar joined in the 
refrain of the last line, — # 

“ Of the bold soldier boy!” 

Peggy burst out in a loud laugh, and commenced to 
dance, to the admiring plaudits of the onlookers. 

/‘Charlie,’’! whispered, “come away fro in 'this vile 
den. It is no place for us, my boy.” 

“No,” he replied, “I shall stay.” 

“Why — when I beg you to leave it? What attraction 
can there be here for you in these orgies, the end of which 
I know too well!” 

He looked at me for a moment, and then turned his 
eyes toward Molka. 

“Is it because of her?” I asked. 

“ Yes,” he answered. 

“ Do you love her, Charlie — oh, Charlie, do you love 
her?” 

“Yes,” he said, “I love her — I love her — I love her!” 

A blindness fell upon my eyes, a blindness of jealousy 
and despair. This love of my bo^s for an outcast like 
Molka, low, degraded, and vile by association with the 
vile, was the greatest misery that had ever fallen upon me. 
That such as she should rob me of his love, and defile his 
pure nature, filled me with a resentment so bitter that I 
scarcely dared to think in what direction it would lead 
me. If I could have done so by a look, I would have 
struck her dead at my feet! 

“ You’re a beauty, and no mistake,” said Blossie, ad' 
dressing Peggy; “areg’lar red rose. Now, Molka ’ere, 
she’s like a white lily. Blowed if I ain’t gitting quite 
poetical! That all comes of being a soldier. Wot d’yer 


66 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


say, Molka— do yott wish I was going to that excursion of 
your^n to-morrer?’’ 

Yes,” she answered softly. 

^‘No, no!” cried Charlie, starting forward. 

^^Why, Charlie,” she said, in wonder at his agitation, 
‘‘ you’re going, too, aren’t yer?” 

‘‘ Yes,” he said, am going.” 

‘^Charlie,”! whispered, drawing him aside, ^‘1 was 
in hopes that you would not go.” 

I am going,” he said, doggedly and sadly. 

'^But can yer come, Blossie?” asked Bold Peggy. 

Can I come?” cried Blossie, working the pot round 
and round, preparatory to his draining the last drops. 

I shall like to know who’s going to prevent me? Fill 
up agin, misses. Wot! when two blooming girls fall 
a-courting of me like that, it’d be a disgrace to the army 
to disappint ’em. Why, a man wouldn’t do it, let alone 
a soldier! Wot’s your opinion, missis?” to the landlady. 

You’re up to snuff you are,” and then he broke into 
singing again: 

“ ' We taste their taps, 

"VV e tear their caps — 

“ Ah! you’re the boy for me!” says she. 

“ You’re the darlint of me heart,” says the bold soldier boy.’” 

And the refrain was again taken up, in a more riotous 
and maudlin vein than on the first occasion: 

“ ‘ You’re the darlint of me heart,’ says the bold soldier boy.” 

Blossie had an arm each round the waist of Bold Peggy 
and Molka. 

‘‘ She is modest, is she?” I whispered to Charlie, recall- 
ing his own words. ‘"She is fragile, trustful, tender! 
Which of those two do you think the better?” 

“Do you wish to drive me mad.^^” he replied, in a 
mournful tone. “ Can you not see how I am suffering? 


CHKISTMAS Al^GEL. 


67 


Who am I that I shall condemn her? Has she not 
been brought up so? Oh, father, father, my heart is 
breaking r’ 

Leave her, then, and come with me.” 
can not—I can not!” 

’Ere, young chap,” cried Blossie to Charlie, you look 
as white as a ghost. Take a pull at this.” 

I stretched forth my hand to prevent Charlie accepting 
the invitation, when a woman ran in and hurriedly whis- 
pered to Blossie. 

Oh, they’re arter us, are they?” he exclaimed. 

Well, let ’em ketch me if they can; but I’ll have six- 
aud-thirty hours to myself, and I’ll report myself at bar- 
racks to-morrow night. They can’t do much to me, and 
I don’t mind paying for my whistle. Ain’t I been fight- 
ing for the Queen, and don’t I deserve a holiday?” 

“ You’re a plucky one,” screamed Peggy; you’re a man 
arter my own ’earti” 

The excitement that ensued could scarcely have been 
greater if all Pentecost had been on fire. Blossie was 
about to run out at the door when warning cries that the 
picket was outside and just going to enter, restrained 
him. He gave a hurried look around, cried “Hooray!’’ 
and vaulted over the counter into the back of the house. 
As he disappeared the picket entered. The neighbor- 
-hood was being searched for soldiers absent from barracks 
beyond their proper time. 

“Ah! here’s two of ’em. Any more around, girls?” 

With various strength the women declared, speaking all 
at once, that they had not set eyes on another the whole 
of the blessed day— asseverations which the guard received 
with good-humored, incredulous laughter. 

“ Pernaps you’d like to loob through the rooms,” sug- 
gested the landlady, who had before her, for the five 
hundredth time, a divided duty — duty to the authorities 
and to her customers; she knew perfectly well that Blossie 


68 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


was not in the house, or she would have been chary of 
offering the suggestion. The guard said they woxdd\\\Qi 
and through the house they went, as a matter of form, 
poking under beds and opening cupboards, amid a merry 
chorus of coarse badinage from the women, who followed 
them into the rooms, and whose only anxiety was that 
their hero should successfully make his escape. By this 
time Blossie was on the roof of the Pig and Whistle, in 
full sight of another admiring crowd outside, his parti- 
sans one and all, who exchanged congratulations, as 
though it was their own liberty that was in peril, when 
Blossie disappeared through a trap-door in the roof. But 
he very soon made his appearance again in the open, for 
the guard had entered that house, their intention being 
to search the whole street through, from end to end. 
Most of the wretched tenements were lodging-houses, 
wherein a bed in which a pig might reasonably have 
objected to sleep, could be had for twopence a night* 
Nearly all the women followed them, and treated them 
to a volley of chaff,” which was received with the utmost 
good-humor. Many were the invitations they received to 
a pot and a pipe, accompanied by such declarations as — 
It’ll do you good to wet your whistle. They’re fine 
chap&5 ain’t they, Polly? I say, Fll take the Queen’s shil- 
ling, if yer don’t mind my petticuts! I’d make as good* 
a soldier as the best on ’em. Ah! that she would, cor- 
poral! She can carry three ’undred weight on ’er ’ead, 
can’t yer. Bet? Come, now, like good-natured chaps, 
stop and share a pot. You won’t be called upon to pay 
for it. I’ll stand treat. So will I. The Queen, bless ’er 
’eart! she won’t mind if you’re arf an hour behind time. 
She’s a good sort, she is. Three cheers for Queen Wic- 
toria, gals! And three more for the Prince of Wales! 
He’s the man for our money! And three more for the 
colonel! And three more for ourselves! Hooray! Hooray! 
Hooray! 


CHEISTMAS ANGEL. 


69 


So they wenfc along the street, and into the houses, un- 
til the picket were fain to depart with Blossie’s two com- 
rades, whose heroic legs were so unsteady that they had 
almost to be carried by the guard who were conveying 
them back to their duty and allegiance. Long before 
which time, Blossie, having doubled on his pursuers, had 
found his way again to the bar of the Pig and Whistle, 
where he was drinking and singing, and Bold Peggy was 
dancing to the music of a flute played by a man with the 
reddest nose and whitest face in all Pentecost; while I 
stood helplessly by, watching Charlie, whose tender, mel- 
ancholy eyes never left the girl Molka, who had stepped 
between him and my heart. 


CHAPTER IV. 

‘‘she stood desolate on the kiver^s bank/’ 

Through the pretty country lanes the pleasure-vans, 
with their motley freight of men, women, and children, 
wound their way. There were not many men among 
them. In point of numbers the women came first, the 
children next, the men last. There had been no selection, 
and no orders given as to dress or cleanliness. The order 
had gone forth that those who lived in Pentecost, and 
could spare the time, could enjby a day in the country if 
they had a mind to, certain restrictions being set down 
with respect to the men. First come, first served; a dozen 
vans full, those for whom room could not be found being 
left behind. 

The Rev. Mr. Birley had, for the occasion, placed his 
purse at the disposal of Mr, Alabaster, and had made some 
suggestions as to tidiness on the part of the excursionists. 
Against this Mr. Alabaster had set his face. 

“ We will have them as they are,” he said, “ without 
any gloss upon them. If they are transformed into an 


70 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


unlikeness of themselves, how will you be able to judge? 
Let the native Adam present himself in all his originality. 
The halt, the blind, the lame, the maimed, physically and 
morally, they are every one of them welcome.” 

All this was well understood by myself and my fellows 
in Pentecost, and we crowded into the vans, which were 
drawn up in the narrow streets, almost torn to pieces in 
the eager rush. Close to us sat Molka and Bold Peggy, 
and a man in a slouched hat, and a cloak which hid his 
uniform. This was Blossie, who thus disguised himself, 
for safety’s sake, while we were in London. Molka and 
Bold Peggy had made themselves smart, as had some 
others of the female sex, but a great many came exactly 
as they were in the habit of presenting themselves in Pen- 
tecost. On the box of the van in which we had our 
places, sat Mr. Alabaster and the Eev. Mr. Birley. 

Horses prancing, flags waving, the bright ribbons at the 
horses’ ears gayly fluttering. Out of the slums of Pente- 
cost we streamed, directly into the purlieus of West- 
minster past the ancient walls and turrets, the points of 
which gleamed like diamonds in the sun^ over the bridge, 
on each side of which Hie river stretched out eastward to 
the sea, westward to the college walls of Oxford. The 
surface of the water was a mass of living jewels. 

Oh, if they wos only real!” cried Bold Peggy. 

We left the river behind us, and pranced through gray 
streets into the sweet country, when Blossie threw off his 
cloak with a loud laugh, crying. 

Done ’em this time! Who cares? I’m going to en- 
joy myself, T am!” 

The whole country was in bloom. Tha trees were in 
full leaf and blossom, aud the air was melodious with the 
singing of birds. A cavalcade so gay and large could not 
escape notice, and women came to the cottage doors, and 
men paused in their work in the fields to stare at us. Not 
one of these sight-gazers escaped a greeting. 


GHEISTMAS AI^GEL. 


71 


Wofc d’yer think of us, eh?’’ ‘‘I say, missis, chuck 

us a ’andful of flowers!” Come up and ’ave a ride?” 

III ’ave yer apples!” 

Then the discussions and the wrangles as to what things 
were. 

^‘That’s a fine field of barley.” It ain’t barley, it’s 
oats.” ^‘It ain’t oats, it’s wheat.” Stow yer gaff! Wot 
does it matter wot it is, so long as it’s somethink to eat?” 

I say, wot’s them blood-red flowers? Poppies? Ali, 
tliat’s what they git laudanum from, ain’t it?” Oh, 
my eyes! look at them ciierry- trees. Shouldn’t I like to 
be up ’em!” say, there’s a swell park — and wot’s 
them 9 Deer, eh? ’Ere, give us a stone!” 

These remarks, amid a thousand others, the sense of 
which was lost upon me, came to my ears, as well as the 
songs sung from time to time, in which occasionally 
nearly every person in every one of the twelve pleasure- 
vans joined in chorus. There was plenty of music, the 
red-nosed man who played the flute being in our van; half 
a dozen children had brought tin whistles with them, 
from which they produced tolerable melody; Jew’s harps, 
trumpets, even a violin. The noise distracted me; I 
thought only of myself and Charlie, who did not open 
his lips the whole of the ride. Even when ]\ft)]ka spoke 
to him, she simply nodded or smiled sadly. Blossie was 
courting both Bold Peggie and Molka, who were the envy 
of the other women, the soldier’s coat being in their eyes 
an irresistible attraction. 

We stopped to give the horses water, and there was a 
general demand for drink from tlie excursionists. 

Now for your experiment,” said Mr. Alabaster to Mr. 
Birley. 

To one of the vans, which contained meat and drink, 
they all trooped, in obedience to an order passed round, 
baskets of sandwiches were unpacked, and served out to 
all. 


72 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


Wot d’yer call this — a sand which! D’yer tliink Fm 
going to make a fool of my mouth? Give us a good ’unk 
of bread and meat.’’ 

So to please them, loaves were cut in four, and meat 
cut thick. 

Ah, that’s the sort! But give us somethink to drink, 
guv’nor.” 

Out came the milk cans, and men and women pulled 
wry faces. 

Milk! not if I know it! No beer? That’s -a nice go, 
bringing us all the way ’out ’ere, without as much as a 
pot of beer to take the thirst off us! ’Ere, gals, let’s go to 
the public, and get somethink as we can drink!” 

Off they trooped — some laughing, some jeering, all 
grumbling — to* the wayside inn, where those who had 
money stood ” liquor for those whose pockets were 
empty. Blossie was in high feather, and was spending his 
pay freely. Charlie followed him wherever he went, for 
Molka was always with him; his scarlet coat, his bronzed 
face, with its handsome mustache, his loud talk had 
magnetized and bewitched her. 

Ain’t he splendid?” she said to Charlie. Did yer 
ever see a man like ’im? He won that battle, he did all 
by his ow« self. The Queen’s going to give ’im a pension 
and three gold medals, and he’s going to make a lady of 
me, Charlie, Only think!” 

Charlie did not reply, and when I urged him to return 
to London, saying that, although I had no money to pay 
for riding back, we could walk the way, and reach our 
home before night, he shook his head, and mounted to his 
seat in the van near the girl who was breaking his heart. 
We drove through leafy forests and scenes, whose beauties, 
under happier auspices, would have filled me with delight 
and attuned my mind to lofty thought, but now they fell 
dead upon my soul; and when at length we halted for the 
day in an ancient wood in which beech- trees, centuries old 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


73 


still flourished, I threw myself upon the ground, and 
buried my face in my hands. If Charlie had but come 
to me then and said, Father, let us turn our backs upon 
these people forever; let us live only for each other,” how 
happy would those words have made me! If he had only 
sat by my side for a little while with his hand in mine, 
so that I might have felt assured that he was not utterly 
estranged from meh But I was alone, and he was witli 
Molka. I dreaded to think what I might be tempted to 
do, if I met her in a secluded part of these ancient woods 
with no witness near us. As Hay brooding in this misera- 
ble state I heard voices of two men conversing — Mr. 
Alabaster and Mr. Birley. 

‘^Bearing in mind what you have told me of Molka,” 
said Mr. Birley, I have given her some attention, and I 
do not find that slie justifies your opinion of her.” 

I have also observed her,” said Mr. Alabaster thought- 
fully, ^^and am much disturbed about her.” 

As to her general good behavior, as to her modesty, 
do you not think you have been mistaken in her? — and, 
following up that new view in its natural direction, do 
you not think you may have been mistaken in your general 
estimate of these residents of Pentecost?” 

Of them,” replied Mr. Alabaster, you have never 
heard me speak in terms of praise — only in terms of pity. 
I do not ask you to admire them — I ask you simply never 
to forget that it is next to impossible they could be differ- 
ent from what they are. Kespecting Molka, I can but 
account for her altered behavior in one way. Reflect for a 
moment, Birley. In your own station have you not had ex- 
periences of young girls who have been led away — some 
even to shame and ruin — by men with specious tongues 
and showy exteriors? This phase of life has formed the 
theme for poem and story, which have been always suc- 
cessful because they are human. And these girls, re- 
member, have, in nearly every instance, had parents and 


74 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


wise counselors around them from their birth; have been 
carefully nurtured and carefully brought up; have had 
good lessons instilled into them; have been taught the 
value of morality and virtue and religion — and yet they 
have fallen. If you can find excuse for them, how much 
more readily should you find an excuse for a child like 
Molka, who has ha'd no moral training, who has neither 
the love of God to uphold and strengthen her, nor the 
fear of God to deter her from entering the wrong path? 
She is defenseless; her naked body is without shield. 
Her innocence is her betrayer; her simplicity is her dead- 
liest foe. What speaks to her? Nature. The passion 
of love, comes it not to all alike, and is not Molka’s the 
season of love? There appears before her this base hero, 
who takes her heart captive. She does not stop to con- 
sider. Love never does. Cunning can take care of itself. 
She has not a particle of it. I confess that, with this 
false glamour upon her, I fear more than ever for her 
future. Poor child! Heaven alone can protect and save 
her.” 

Then they passed out of hearing. . 

Something of what Mr. Alabaster’s words conveyed to 
my mind comforted me, imbued me with hope. If what 
he dreaded occurred, if this base hero betrayed and de- 
serted Molka, and brought her to shame, then would the 
scales fall from my Charlie’s eyes; then would he see her 
in her true light; then would he shun her with loath- 
ing, and come to me again with single heart. 

Let the blow fall soon,” I cried. ‘‘Devil in the shape 
of man, work her ruin swiftly, and restore my son to my 
loving heart!” 

The words were no sooner uttered than I saw them — 
Molka and the hero of Pentecost — pass within a dozen 
yards of me, side by side. He was talking loudly, laugh* 
ing wildly; his eyes shone with triumph as he gazed upon 
her drooping heado Once she raised her face to his; it 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


75 


was bright with blushes, and a soft and tender light was 
in her eyes. He stooped and kissed her lips, and they 
passed out of sight. Following them was my son, whom 
I did not see till they had passed away. His limbs were 
trembling, his cheeks were pallid; a groan escaped his 
white lips. He also passed out of sight in the direction 
they had taken. 

• Only for a little while,’’ my son,” I murmured; only 
for a little while! When shame gives me the victory, you 
will be mine again!” 

The day dragged out its weary length; for some the 
hours, laden with pleasure, flew all too fast; for me they 
lagged. I took no share in the amusements; I neither eat 
nor drank. But although for me the minutes were 
clogged with lead, I bore the torture more patiently than 
I otherwise should, because of the hope that this dark day 
would be the prelude of a brighter future. As for Molka’s 
future, what was that to me? 

They came to summon us to the vans. It was time to 
return to Pentecost. Night would be upon ns before we 
reached London. But there would be moonlight and 
starlight to illuminate the white roads and the silver 
branches of the trees. And a joyful hope was mine. 
From my heart a heavy weight was being gradually lifted. 

Charlie and I climbed into the van together. The 
driver was about to start. 

'•'Stop!” cried bold Peggy, we are not all here! wait 
for Molka and Blossie!” And then, in an undertone, 
^^I’ll pay ’er out for this, as I’m a living woman!” • 

We waited — five minutes, ten, fifteen. I held Charlie’s 
hand, and I felt his fingers throb with convulsive move- 
ment. 

Can’t stop any longer,” said the driver; ^Mt’ll be 
midnight before we get to London, as it is.” 

I blessed the chance. My triumph was approaching. 


76 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


The driver smacked his whip, and the horses started. 
But Charlie was .on his feet, swaying to and fro. 

^‘Set down, set down,’^ they cried to him, or you’ll 
be pitched out!” 

He paid no heed to their warning cries. Scrambling 
over them, leaped from the van and ran into the 
deeper shadows of the woods. I, who had leaped out 
after him, had some difficulty in following him, he ran 
so fast. I heard, from a distance, the rattling of hoofs, 
and the music and singing in the pleasure-vans. Gradu- 
ally the sounds died away, and all was still »nd silent. 
Charlie and I were alone in the woods. 

It had suddenly become night. The trees bent their 
heads slowly and solemnly, as if in prayer; there was a 
worshipful murmur from the waving branches; as I 
looked up I saw that the topmost of them formed a kind 
of arched canopy, through the interlacing of which the 
stars were sadly shining. Charlie turned upon me. 

Why do you follow me, fatlier?” he asked. 

There was no petulance or anger in his voice; it waS 
fraught with melancholy. 

I have no one in the world but you, my son,” I said. 

You are my only hope.” 

And yet,” he said, in the same melancholy tone, if 
it were possible for me to obtain happiness in the way I 
desire, you would begrudge it to me. What is that?” 

A white shadow glided past us; he darted after it, but 
it died in the moment of its birth. 

‘"I thought it was Molka,” he murmured, and then, 
returning to me, he continued his theme. ^^Yes, you 
would begrudge me my happiness— you, who say that you 
love no other than me. My heart speaks to me; I listen 
to its voice; it condemns you, father.” 

‘^Charlie, Charlie!” I cried, holding out my hands to 
him appealingly. He took them and kissed them, and 
when he set them loose they were bedewed with his tears. 


CHRISTMAwS AKGEL. 


77 


can not help it, —father; nor, perhaps, can you. 
Poverty and privation I can bear, but you would rob my 
life of love.” 

‘‘ Is it not stolen from you, Charlie, without my inter- 
vention?” 

‘‘Again those doubts!” he exclaimed. “Again those 
calumnies! I will not listen. Molka! Molka!” 

And he went from me, and ran through the woods, call- 
ing her name. 

I followed, keeping at some little distance from him, so 
that I might not further vex him. All my hopes now 
rested in his quick discovery of Molka’s shame. 

Ah! that long, torturing, never-ending night! Black 
darkness infolded us for hours, but occasionally in the 
distance visions appeared in a halo of dim light, which 
faded gradually away as we approached them. The cen- 
tral figures of these visions, raised no less by physical ex- 
haustion than by hopes and fears that were fighting their 
sickening battle within me, were always Molka and 
Blossie. 

A moss-covered hill, upon which the girl and the man 
were sitting, she weaving garlands of flowers for him, 
which he tore to pieces the moment he received them, 
laughing and singing, while she continued to smile upon 
him even as he destroyed her loving handiwork. 

“ They are .there,” said Charlie. “ I must have her!” 

Their forms faded, and were merged in the shadows of 
night. The moss-covered mound disappeared. 

“ Charlie,” I said, “ these are but deceitful fancies. 
Take my hand — lean upon me; we will return home. I 
will work for you, slave for you; happiness may still be 
ours.” 

“Happiness loill be ours,” he replied, “when I find 
Molka.” 

The lights of lamps in the distance, gleaming in the 
windows of a public-house, and from its partly open door. 


78 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


through which indistinct forms of men and women and 
children entered and departed. In the front of the pub- 
lic-house a long line of street-lamps, tapering to a narrow 
point. The door was opened wide from within, arid held 
open, displaying a motley crowd, drinking and waving 
their hands and pots and glasses. A lurid glare illumined 
the scene, which presented itself to my senses as a very 
saturnalia of unrestrained and vicious license. A sudden 
space in the center, through which were revealed the 
figures of Molka and Blossie drinking, their faces aglow 
with excitement. 

Molka! Molka! ’’cried Charlie, running toward the 
vision, which faded swiftly away, and was lost in the 
night. 

Charlie stood in mute despair, his arms still outstretched. 

Are you now convinced?” I said. ‘^Though these 
are but delusions, they show you the truth, and are sent 
for a wise purpose. Be persuaded, my son ; return home 
with me, who will deem no sacrifice too hard to make, 
who will shrink from no labor, till he brings peace to your 
soul.” 

‘‘ My soul will never know peace,” said Charlie, till I 
find Molka, and save her from this peril.” 

‘^Youcannot undo the past,” I said. Shame rests 
upon her name forever.” 

She has all the more need for me,” he replied. I will 
find her, and comfort her.” 

A yellow, sickly glare appeared in the skies. We walked 
toward it, and found it proceeded from the city’s lights. 
They converged upon one avenue — a bridge. The glare 
grew dim, the biddge grew dark. A flight of stone steps 
was faintly outlined, terminating on the river’s bank. 
The sullen waters washed against the arches. At the top 
of the flight of stone steps stood a woman in rags. Her 
face was white with want and despair. It was Molka, and 
I held my breath, Charlie seemed incapable of movement, 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


79 


and presently she began to descend the steps. No soul 
was near her. She stood desolate on the river’s bank, 
alone with her sin and shame. She had no hat on lier 
head, and her long hair hung loosely down upon lier 
shoulders. A boat was near her, secured by a chain to7a 
log imbedded in the ground. She stepped upon the boat, 
and, stooping, freed it from its imprisonment. Then she 
lifted an oar, and pushed out into the depths of the river. 

Still Charlie did not move ; still he was safe by my 
side. Horror had deprived him of motion. My thought 
was: 

‘‘In a moment she will be gone! In a moment, and 
she will no longer hold her fatal power over my son 1” 

She reached the point she desired; she stood upright 
on the boat; she raised her arms, which now I observed 
were bare, to the pitless clouds. 

“No, no!” cried Charlie, wresting his hand from 
mine; “not that, Molka — not that! For God’s sake not 
that!” 

He flew toward her, and I flew after him. She sprung 
into the air, fell, and the waters closed over her. With a 
wild scream Charlie leaped from the bridge, and I leaped 
after him — and fell to the ground clasping the stones. 
The bridge, the river, the boat, was gone, and I was alone 
in the world, Charlie was lost to me forever. 


80 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


BOOK THE FOURTH. 

THE BIYINE LEGACY. 


CHAPTER I. 

‘^HIS HEAVENLY PITY FOR THE ERRING AND UNFORT- 
UNATE MOVED ME TO WORSHIP.’’ 

I LOOKED at myself in the glass in the common, mean 
room I occupied in Mr. Alabaster's house. It was with 
difficulty that I stood upright. Chill winter was not only 
upon the city; it was upon me. My hair was quite 
white. 

How long had I been ill? When last I saw my dear 
Charlie it was summer, and now I could see the snow 
clinging to the roofs, and dropping with dull thuds upon 
the pavement. Had months only passed, or had I been 
years tossing in delirium upon my bed, calling for Charlie, 
and never being blessed with a sight of his beautiful face? 
If he were not dead, if the visions I had seen in the woods 
were, what I had hoped they were, mere phantasmagoria 
of a fevered brain, then he should be alive and with me, 
tending me as I would have tended him, giving me some 
small return for the love I had bestowed upon him. Who 
would enlighten me upon this point? — who would relieve 
my aching heart? — who but Mr. Alabaster? Turning 
from the looking-glass, I saw him in the room. He led 
me gently to a chair. 

“You are yet too weak to be moving,” he said; “you 
have had a hard fight with Death, and have conquered 
him.” 

“How long have I been ill?” I asked, faintly. 


OHKISTMAS AKGEL. 81 

“ It was in the summer of last year you accompanied 
us on our holiday excursion to the country.” 

‘•In the summer of last year!” I repeated, in wonder. 
“You are not mocking me!” 

“ No; there is no room for jest in such a condition and 
circumstances as yours.” 

“ Tell me what has occurred during this year or more.” 

I made no mention of Charlie yet. I had not courage 
so suddenly to speak of what was nearest to my heart. , 

“ You were brought home late on the night of onr holi- 
day excursion, long after we had returned. When the 
vans started back for London, you were not the only one 
missing. Your son Charlie — ” 

He paused, arrested in his narrative by the convulsive 
twitching in my face. 

“ A moment,” I said with difficulty, speaking with suf- 
ficient distinctness to be understood. “ In mercy, go ho 
further till you relieve my aching heart. My son! Does 
he—” 

I could not ask the q^uestion. My tongue cleaved to the 
roof of my mouth. 

“ Does he live, you would ask?” said Mr. Alabaster. 
“ Yes, he lives.” 

The joy I felt was swiftly followed by a feeling of ter- 
ror. Living, why was he not with me? If he no longer 
loved or cared for me, would it not be better that he should 
be dead? Then could I mourn for him in sorrow and 
in love; as it was, the thought of him brought me nothing 
but despair. 

“Shall I go on?” asked Mr. Alabaster. “Are you 
strong enough to hear what I have to say?” 

“I do not know: but I must hear it, though it kill me- 
Does that wretched girl live also?” 

“Of whom do you speak?” 

“My tongue almost refuses to utter her degraded name* 
I speak of Molka.” 


82 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


She lives^ poor child! Shall I now continue?” 

Yes; but you must pardon me for any wild, words I 
may speak. When Charlie and I were alone in the wood 
on that fatal night, I was haunted by terrible fancies. I 
thought that Charlie and the wretched being who has 
been his ruin — ” 

You cried for mercy just now,” interrupted Mr. Ala- 
baster sternly. ‘^Be merciful to her, as you hope for it 
yourself. What was your thought of her and your son?’ 

That they were dead — in the river!” 

^‘Poor Molka! Such things have been, and, alas! will 
be. But as yet she lives. You were not the only one 
missing. Your son did not return with us, nor did Molka 
and her betrayer.” 

Her betrayer! Ah, that much of my fancies was 
true!” 

^^You appear to exult in it. Beware! or retribution 
will fall upon you. Not for you, or me, or any erring 
mortal, to cast the stone. You were brought home alone 
— by whom I know not. It was long past midnight when 
I heard a knock at the street door, and upon opening it 
saw you lying on the steps. I carried you into the house 
and into this room, which you have not left from that 
time. You were in a high fever, and you spoke of a 
bridge, a boat, a river. You uttered imprecations upon 
the unfortunate giiTs head; you called despairingly for 
your son. Had it not been for the love I bear him, love 
inspired by a recognition in him of noble qualities which, 
unless I mistake, you deem degrading^ — had it not been 
for this, I say, I should have carted you out of my house, 
so strong was my indignation at the cruel words you ut- 
tered with respect to Molka. But for his sake I attended 
you.” 

Did he not come to me?” I asked imploringly. Has 
he left me all these months to the care of a stranger?” 

^^You shall hear. I tended you, not believing you 


CHEISTMAS AKGEIr.- 


83 


would live, your condition was so dangerous. A week 
after you came home your son appeared and inquired for 
you.’’ 

He did not forget me, then!” I exclaimed, the tears 
gushing to my eyes. ‘‘He did not forget me!” 

“ He was hollow-eyed, haggard, emaciated, but in his 
face the old sweet beauty reigned, which surely must be 
index to the divine goodness of his nature. I informed 
him of your state, and he thanked me for my care nf you. 
I led him to your bedside, and as he sat by it and listened 
to the vile words you uttered against Molka in your de- 
lirium, he shuddered and hid his face — as though ho 
would fain deceive himself with the hope that it was not 
his father who was so unmerciful. He inquired not only 
after you, but after Molka, who had not been seen in the 
neighborhood since the excursion. It appears that, fear- 
ing Blossie would betray her, he leaped from the van when 
it was discovered that those two had not taken their 
places, with the intention of following them and saving 
her. You also left the van; I know not what passed be^ 
tween you and your son, but on that night you were 
parted.” 

“He deserted me for her!” I groaned. “For the 
second time he deserted me for her!” 

“ He searched-for her in many places for a week, and 
did not succeed in tracing her; and he came back to 
Pentecost in the hope that she had returned to her old 
quarters.” 

“ She was not here?” 

“ She was not here. Then he confided to me his de- 
termination to discover lier, if possible, and if too late to 
save her, to comfort and console her. On that night it 
was — on the first nigh't of his return, when he and 1 were 
sitting together in my room below, and you were raving 
liere — on that night he laid bare his heart, his soul, his 


84 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


mind. I listened in rapturous wonderment. Never in 
my life had I met with a being so noble — never in this 
world’s wide and sorrowful story was born a mortal whose 
nature was so near akin to the nature of an angel. His 
divine compassion for what he called irresponsible sin, his 
heavenly pity for the erring and unfortunate, moved me 
to worship. And there was this in him which distinguished 
him above all others of whom I have read or heard. He 
left the other side untouched. He did not condemn the 
frivolous and careless ones who pass through life engaged 
in the selfish pursuit of pleasures, squandering hourly in 
the quest, money, a tenth part of which would bring 
heaven to many suffering hearts. All the wealth of his 
divine nature was enlisted on the side of the erring and 
unfortunate, and these were typified in one being — Molka. 

will never give up the search,’ he said to me, will 
never relinquish hope till I find her, or till I know she is 
dead.’ He asked me to help him, and I promised to do 
so, if he would show me the way. He wished, it appeared, 
to be satisfied that you would be properly cared for dur- 
ing the period he might find it necessary to be absent from 
the neighborhood. ^ I have no money to pay you for the 
task,’ he said, ‘ nor has my father any. If you undertake 
it, it must be a labor of love and pity.’ I undertook the 
task — for his sake, not for yours — and have faithfully 
carried it out. Your son made no allusion to the senti- 
ments you expressed concerning Molka; he has never 
uttered a word of reproach against you. And let me tell 
you that you have never ceased your reviling of the un- 
happy girl. Your son has sat by your bedside for hours 
and hours together, while you have been engaged in pour- 
ing your vials of unjust wrath upon her devoted head. 
It was your son you made to suffer, not the hapless girl he 
loved and loves.” 

What has become of her?” I asked sullenly. 

‘'Charlie never ceased his inquiries after her, and fob 


CHEISTMAS ANGEL. 


85 


lowed many a false scent. ‘ I hear she is in Portsmouth/ 
he said, and to Portsmouth he went, returning on the day 
he appointed, with failure written on his white face. To 
almost every place where there was a soldiers’ barracks he 
went, unsuccessfully. How he made his way thither, and 
in what manner he supported himself, is a mystery to me. 
I, who am nearly as penniless as yourself, could do little to 
help him, but I doubt, if I had been richer than I am, 
whether he would have accepted the full assistance I 
should have offered him. His reply would have been, 
‘ There are others whose needs are greater, whose claims 
are more pressing; help them. I can live on a crust.’ 
And, indeed, he must have done so the most of the time. 
Last spring Molka returned to Pentecost. Charlie was 
absent, seeking her in another direction. Bold Peggy 
informed me of her return, and there was a threatening 
accent in her words, a dark, revengeful look in her eyes, 
which I saw boded ill for the hapless child. When she 
came into my shop to tell me that Molka was in Pentecost, 
she asked for you. I informed her that you were still in 
bed, delirious, and unconscious of all that passed around 
you. ‘ Well,’ she said, upon that, ‘ if he don’t hunt her 
out of Pentecost, I will. I hate her as much as he does.’ 
She is Molka’s sworn enemy, and, if she can, will hunt 
the poor child into her grave. Molka had taken her sol- 
dier from her,. she said, and the sentiments she expressed 
toward her supposed rival were such as could only proceed 
from a bitterly jealous and disappointed woman. Alarm- 
ed for the poor child, I went to her, and could scarcely 
restrain my tears when T beheld her. Such a picture of 
misery and wretchedness I, who am used to such pictures, 
never saw. before, and trust I may never see again. I gave 
her food; she needed it, and eat it greedily. I dared not 
inquire into her history; but voluntarily, moved by the 
sympathy I exhibited toward her, she told me a little. 
Would yon have it in pregnant words? Betrayed— de- 


86 CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 

serted — penniless — despairing! Fill up the details for your- 
self.’’ 

She has deserved her harvest,” I said. 

Merciless! merciless!” murmured Mr. Alabaster. 

But you must settle the account with your soul. I have 
promised to tell you all I know, and I will do so and leave 
you. She inquired, timorously and shrinkingly, after 
Charlie.” 

She dared!” I cried. 

She dared. With an intuitive perception that he 
would not shun and loathe her as her father does, and yet 
from no desire to thrust herself upon his notice, she asked 
me, timidly, to give her some particulars of him, and she 
spoke — restrain your anger — as if he himself Avere in need 
of some kind of charity and pity.” 

Pity from such as she! I know her intention. Having 
lost one lover, who, having had enougli of her, threw her 
off, she wished to entangle my boy with her arts. Welh 
she succeeded. Tell me that, and fill to overflowing my 
cup of sorrow.” 

‘‘It was not so, and you do her a foul wrong. I told 
her of Charlie, but, fearing to raise false hopes, concealed 
from her how he was suffering for her sake. 1 said I 
hoped she would soon see him. She said she hoped so, 
too, and then she burst into a fit of passionate tears, and 
cried, ‘ Ho, no; I must not see him! I should sink to the 
earth in shame!’ I feared then, and what I have since 
heard has confirmed my fear, that she was about to be- 
come a mother. Stop! I will not listen to the words I 
see hanging on your lips. Spare your reproaches and your 
expressions of triumphant self-vindication. I left her, 
somewhat consoled, and she* kissed my hand at parting. 
A week afterAvard Charlie returned, and I told him of 
Molka and where to find her. He went, and came back 
in deep tribulation. She Avas gone. Bold Peggy had 
hunted her aAvay, and she Avas lost again, to wander 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 


87 


through the world, desolate and friendless. I dread to 
think of what has happened to her. Charlie renewed his 
efforts to discover her, with no greater success than he had 
already met with. Three days ago he left the house, say- 
ing he believed he had a slight clew. It is at his request 
I have made this disclosure to you. He desired me, if at 
any time during his absence you should awake in a con- 
scious state from your long delirium, to relate to you all 
that has occurred, I have done so in as plain words as I 
could command. If you have any questions to ask bear- 
ing upon Molka and your son, ask them briefly and quickly. 
There is but little sympathy between you and me, and I 
can not find the excuse for you that I find for the denizens 
of these wretched courts and alleys. You were not born . 
in ignorance and vice, and you have exhibited a lack of 
humanity which shocks me. I decline to argue with 
you.^’ 

^^And I with you. My questions shall be few and 
short. What has become of Molka’s soldier hero?” 

‘^His regiment is in India, and he with it.” 

‘‘Are they married?” 

“No.” 

“ When do you expect my son to return? Remember 
that he %s my son, and that he owes me both love and 
duty.” 

“In four days fram this at the furthermost — perhaps 
earlier. He has never exceeded the limit he has set upon 
his absence.” 

“ Do you not see that, while this woman lives, there is 
no chance of peace or happiness for him? Are you, being 
his friend, as you say you are, so blind as not to perceive 
that his life would be a blessing to him and to me if this 
woman were removed?” 

“How removed? Dead?” 

“Yes, dead. He has in him, as you have acknowl- 
edged, noble qualities. Who should know this better 


88 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


than I, his father, who have watched him from his birth, 
who, even when he was a babe, hoped and believed that a 
noble future was before him — a future which this creature 
has marred and wrecked?” 

‘‘Not so. The qualities I perceive in him converge all 
to one supreme end, the comfort and the rescue of such 
as Molka. His pursuit of her has sanctified his life. In 
his nature I recognize the true genius of humanity, and 
when he is called away our blessed Lord will welcome 
him with the words, ‘ Wei) done, oh, true and faithful 
servant!’ ” 


CHAPTER II. 

“the wanderer.” 

As he left me, strength returned to my weakened 
frame, and I was able to go into the streets. The winter 
breeze refreshed me, but the squalor and degradation I 
saw around me made me glad to get into the wider 
thoroughfares. The snow on the pavement was whiter 
there, and I gazed with a sense of pleasure upon the 
spires and turrets of the Abbey, whose delicate outlines, 
spiritually silvered, shone sharp and distinct in the clear 
cold air. I was about to cross the bridge, when a woman 
swung herself in front of me, and I recognized Bold 
Peggy. 

She had grown bolder and more brazen during my long 
illness. The beauty which spring brings even into the 
plainest features was entirely gone, and she stood before 
me the very embodiment of coarseness. She was com- 
fortably dressed, her feet were well shod, and she had a 
warm, gaudily colored shawl round her shoulders. She 
wore no hat or bonnet, but her thick black hair was an 
abundant protection and covering for her head. Large 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL; 


89 


gilt ear-rings were in her ears, and a brooch of the same 
common metal was at her throat. 

’Ere, I say,” she cried, Eve been to old Alablaster’s 
looking for yer, and he told me yon ’ad gone out. I’ve 
got a bit of news for yer. You’re looking jolly white, 
guv’nor! Your time’s up, if ever a man’s was.” 

What is yo-ur news? Does it affect me?” 

‘‘Slightlyf Where’s Charlie?” 
the country.” 

And I added, with sudden hope and anxiety, as I turned 
my face toward Pentecost: 

Have you seen him? Has he returned?” 

No,” ^e replied; I ’aven’t seen ’im, and it ain’t ’im 
as ’as come back. But it w’on’t be long afore he’s ’ere, I 
should say. Why, he’s been follering ’er all over the 
country, and when he ’ears she’s in Pentecost, he’ll be 
after ’er like a flash of lightning! The last time she come 
I ’unted her away. And I told ’er, if she ever dared to 
come back agin. I’d make the place too ’ot to ’old ’er. 
Well, she’s come, in spite of me; and I thought per’aps 
that you’d like to do the job this time. Look ’ere, guv’nor, 
she’s in love with Charlie, that’s what she is, the artful 
cat.” 

‘‘ Of whom are you speaking?” I asked, although I knew 
what her answer would be before she gave it. 

^^Of who? Why, of Molka, to be sure. Who else, Pd 
like to know! I ain’t seed ’er myself, but it’s all over 
Pentecost that she’s come back; apd if you don’t pack ’er 
out of this, it’ll be worse for everybody. Yer see,” said 
bold Peggy, with a curious shame-faced hesitation in her 
voice, I’ve got that feeling agin ’er that I’d be like to do 
’er a mischief if I come across ’er. Not that I’m afraid, 
— not a bit of it; but I’ve been in trouble, and I’ve give a 
promise that I’d try to keep out of it, at least for a little 
while. That’s the reason why I’ve come to you; but if 
you’re too chicken-’earted to take it up. I’ll do it myself, 


90 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


and chance it. Unless I’m mistook, you ’ate ’er every bit 
as much as I do.” 

‘‘ You are sure she is in Pentecost?” I asked, gloomily. 

Sartin. I’ll tell yer where to find ’er, if yer want to 
know. It’s the lodging-’ouse in Pye Street, Mrs. Porter’s, 
three doors from the Pig and Whistle, on the same side 
of the way. Top floor, back.” 

Leave her to me,” I said. 

You’ll have ’er out of Pentecost, guv’nor?” 

'^Yes, she must go.” 

^‘And you’re much obliged to me for giving yer the 
orfice.” ^ 

Yes, .1 am obliged to you.” 

‘'"Will yer stand a pot of fourpenny?” 

No; I have no money.” 

All right. I wish yer luck, guv’nor.” 

And away she swung over the bridge toward Ken- 
nington. 

The hews she had imparted to me set my blood on fire. 
Molka returned to Pentecost! In the hope of seeing my 
boy and dragging him from me! For what other purpose? 
It was not to be borne. I would threaten her; if that was 
useless, I would appeal to her to remove herself forever 
out of Charlie’s reach. I knew a way to touch her heart. 
I would employ cunning, if necessary. At all risks, at all 
hazards, I would save Charlie from the shameful associa- 
tion. To that end I was firmly resolved. 


CHAPTER III. 

IS FOR YOU TO MAKE THE SACRIFICE.” 

I WAITED until night. Darkness would best favor my 
design. Eager as I was to embrace my son, I was grateful 
that he did not return while Molka was in Pentecost. 

At ten o’clock I ascended the stairs of the lodging- 


CHRISTMA.S AKGEL. 


91 


house in which she had taken refuge. I knocked at the 
door of her room, and received no answer. Turning the 
handle of the door, I entered, without being bidden. 

At first I saw nothing; but presently, when my eyes 
became accustomed to the gloom, I dimly discerned the 
form of a woman sitting at the uncurtained window. I 
approached her, and laid my hand on her shoulder. She 
made no movement. I shook her somewhat roughly, for 
my impression — which proved to be wrong — was that she 
was aware of my presence, and wished to avoid communi- 
cation with me. She started to her feet with a cry of 
terror and alarm. 

I beg yer pardon,” she said; ^‘setting at the winder 
’ere, I fell asleep. Let me stop to-night, only to-night, 
out of pity! I’ll go away to-morrer morning early, I 
will. I’ll take my oath on it, if yer want me to — and if I 
can git the money to pay yer for the night’s lodging, you 
shall ’ave it, true and honest, or may I die afore the night 
comes agin! Don’t turn me out into the cold streets — 
don’t for God’s sake! Yer don’t answer me! Perhaps 
yer think J ain’t got a chance of paying yer. But I ’ave 
— yes, I ’ave! Mr. Alablaster may be able to give it to 
me; and if he can’t, there’s a young fi^entleman living 
there with a ’eart so good — ” 

I interrupted her sternly — 

You mean Charlie,” I said. 

‘‘You’re Charlie’s father!” she cried. “Is Charlie 
with yer, sir? I thought you was the landlady come to 
turn me out. But you’ll ’elp me, sir, won’t yer, for this 
one night? Oh, I’m so grateful — so grateful! I’ll stop 
crying in a minute, sir. Is Charlie with yer, sir?” 

“No, he is not with me,” I replied. “I have come 
alone to speak to you.” 

“Yes, sir,” she said; “you don’t mind my not ’aving 
a candle? I ain’t got a penny to buy one with.” 


92 CHEISTMAa ANGEL. 

It doesn’t matter. We can speak in the dark. It 
will be better, perhaps.” 

‘‘ I don’t know about that, sir,” she said, and added, 
in a tone of deep pathos, I am always in the dark, sir, it 
seems.” 

You have brought darkness upon yourself,” I said 
coldly, even harshly, ‘‘and you are bringing it upon 
others.” 

She gave utterance to a low moan, wrung from her by 
a recognition of my want of sympathy for her and her 
condition, and then she retreated close to the window, 
and stood there with clasped hands. 

‘^Yes,” I continued, “by your own act you have 
brought yourself to shame and degradation.” 

“ It’s true, sir,” she murmured, and unclasping her 
hands she slowly waved them in feeble despair and be- 
wilderment, “ but I was blind — blind! and I knew no bet- 
ter. Oh, if I ’ad known, if I ’ad known! If some good 
angel ’ad told me, and taught me! Yes, sir, to shame 
and degradation! Oh, my poor ’eart — oh, my poor ’eart!” 

“ And, I repeat, you would bring them upon others!” 

“Upon who, sir?” she asked, plaintively. 

“Upon me — upon Charlie.” 

“ No, no!” she cried, beating her hands together. “Not 
upon ’im — not upon ’im!” 

“Upon him. Had you been a good and virtuous girl^ 
you might have been worthy of liis love. Had you not 
been, as you are, base and vile, his life might have been 
the happier for it.” 

She came close to me, and, laying her hand timidly 
upon my arm, said, in a low, solemn voice, 

“ Did Charlie love me, sir?” 

“He did.” 

“ But doesn’t now,” she murmured, retreating to the 
window again, “but doesn’t now! ’Ow could he, being 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 93 

wot I am — wot you rightly say I am, sir? Ob, if I ’ad 
known, if I ’ad known!” 

Better for him,” I said, that you had never been 
born — ” 

‘‘And for me, too,” she moaned, “forme, too!” 

“ Better that you were dead, than, living, should ruin 
his life and mine,” 

“ ’Ave I done that, sir — ’ave I been so base and wicked 
as to do that?” 

“ You have — you have wrecked his past — you are 
wrecking his future. While you are in his path, distract- 
ing his thoughts, occupying his heart — ” 

“ Oh, Cliarlie, Charlie! it might ’ave been so different 
— ^so different! If / had been different — if I had been 
shown the right way!” 

She had sunk to the ground by the window, and the 
rising moon touched her form with light, 

“ While you are doing that, I tell you, you are ruining 
him body and soul — as you yourself are ruined.” 

“It is true, it is true!” 

“ In what I, his father, am saying, you — if you have 
any human feeling within you at all, if you have any 
recognition of right and wrong — should be as good a 
judge as myself, and should know, without direction^ 
what you should do to atone for the mischief you have 
wrought. He can not raise you to his level. Would you 
wish to lower him to yours?” 

“God forbid — oh, God forbid!” she cried. 

“ Twice has he deserted me for you, and would be ready 
to do so again. Is this natural? Is it human? What 
should be more sacred than the love of a child for its 
parent? I have sacrificed everything in the world for my 
son. What kind of work would even you call that- which 
is successful in turning his heart against me?” 

“Wicked work!” she moaned; “wicked, wicked work!” 

“As for being poor, I am as poor as you are, and 


94 


CHEISTMAS ANGEL. 


Charlie is in the same condition. Through you, he has 
led a life of starvation and unhappiness — through you, I 
have lain on a sick-bed for eighteen months, and have 
been brought nigh unto death. You have truly called 
,your work wicked work. Will you complete it, and 
elfectually blast the lives of a father and his son? or will 
you undo it, and give Charlie and me a chance of happi- 
ness?’’ 

I will undo it,” she said, in a hollow voice, rising to 
her feet, ‘‘if somebody will tell me how to. For my own 
self, sir, if you will believe me, lean see now that I never 
in all my life knew which was the right way to turn. It 
is too late to learn now, sir, ain’t it?” 

“ Yes; you are a woman, God help you!” 

“Thank you for that, sir — oh, thank you for that!” 
and she raised her arms to the smoke-dried ceiling, and 
murmured, “ God help me!” 

There was a pause of at least a minute, during which I 
seemed to hear the ticking of a clock, and seemed to hear 
the words, “From life to death I mark the record. From 
life to death — slowly, surely!” Where and when had I 
heard that refrain before? Was it plucked out of a dead 
past in which happy days of love and sorrow lay buried? 

“ But somebody,” it was Molka who was speaking, 
“ somebody must show me how to undo my wicked work.” 

“I will show you. It is for you, and for you only, to 
act — it is for you to make the sacrifice. You must l^ave 
this place to-night, and forever.” 

“To-njght, and forever!” she echoed, looking toward 
the window, through which we could see the white snow 
slowly falling. “Won’t to-morrer do, sir?” 

“ To-morrow may be too late. If Charlie should learn 
that you are here, all hope would be lost.” 

“ Oh, it is’ard, it is ’ard! But I’ll keep my promise — 
never fear, sir, Fll keep it! Per’aps it’ll reckon a bit on 


CHEISTMAS AKGEL. 95 

my side by and by ” — she shuddered as she repeated, ‘^by 
and by, when everythink comes to an end!” 

She stooped and picked up a bundle from a straw-mat- 
tress on the floor in a corner of the room. 

‘^Ihn quite ready, sir,” 

‘‘What is that you have in your arms?” I asked. 

She was pressing it to her bosom with soft cooings of 
love. 

“ It’s my baby, sir — a little gal, like I was, once. Wot 
am I to do with her — oh, wot am I to do with her, to pre- 
vent her from growing up as bad and wicked as I am? 
It’d be better, wouldn’t it, to — ” 

The shriek that Molka gave here was so appalling that 
the current oT my bldbd seemed to be suspended, and I 
was relieved when she uttered a soft, long, hysterical 
laugh, followed by passionate kisses on her baby’s face. . 

“Poor baby! poor baby! my light, my life, my dearest 
dear!” she murmured, and then to me, “Yer mustn’t 
mind, sir, I’m terrible weak, and I can’t ’elp pitying my 
baby, ’cause I’ve got no milk to give her. But that’s no- 
body’s business but our’n, is it, baby? Hush, hush, my 
sweet! Mother’ll do the best she can for yer!” 

The knowledge that she had a baby — that this added 
shame was hers — intensified my anxiety that she should 
leave the neighborhood without delay. I threw open the 
door. 

“Yes, sir, yes, I’m coming,” said Molka, and she crept 
after me down the stairs, through the street door into the 
street. 

There were no persons visible but ourselves. The snow 
had driven them into their houses or familiar haunts. 
Unobserved, we walked along the narrow streets into the 
broader avenues. We paused on the outskirts of the 
bridge. Even that was deserted. The only man in sight 
was a policeman, walking slowly along, beating his hands 
together for warmth. 


96 


CHKISTMAS ANGEL. 


Charlie mustn’t be told, sir, the road I’m taking,” 
said Molka. 

‘"No,” I said, “he must not know.” 

‘‘But you must, sir. I’m going over the bridge — 
.hush, baby, hush! She feels the cold, sir, and she must 
be ready to die of hunger — poor dear, poor dearj I’m 
going over the bridge into the country, never, never to 
come back. Good-night, sir. Forgive me for all the 
’arm I’ve done!” 

I nodded and she moved away. Before she was half 
across the bridge her figure was no longer visible to 
me. It was lost in the snow, which was now falling 
heavily. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“in remembrance OE CHARLIE.” 

Had I yielded to Molka’s entreaty to allow her to sleep 
the night in Pentecost it would have been too late, for on 
the following morning, some days earlier than he was ex- 
pected, Charlie returned. He had returned in haste, and 
the stains of travel were upon him. 

“Charlie,” I cried, opening my arms to him, “my son, 
my dear son!” 

He kissed me, and took my hand. 

“ I am not surprised to see you up, father,” he said; 
“ it was revealed to me on my way home.” 

His eyes traveled wistfully around the room. 

“You are glad, Charlie?” 

“lam glad, father.” 

“But revealed to you on your way home, my dear 
lad!” I exclaimed. “Surely your hope, which you speak 
of as knowledge, must have sprung from your desire to 
see me well.” 


07 


OHRrSTMAS ANGEL. 

Ko, father, it was revealed to me as other things were 
revealed.’’ 

‘^Yoii will remain with me, Charlie? You will not 
leave me again?” 

I can not say. A strange event in my life is ap- 
proaching. I do not know what it is, but it will eitlier 
bring happiness into my life, or — ” 

He- did not finish the sentence. 

Happiness will soon be ours, Charlie. I, your father, 
can tell you so much.” 

He gazed at me with an inquiring, penetrating look. 

Oh, Charlie!” I said, drawing him close to me, 
there are such signs of suffering in your face tliat my 
heart bleeds for you!” 

He smiled brightly upon me and said, Yes, I have 
suffered. But joy and peace will be mine, in this world 
and in the next, if the one fond desire of my heart is 
gratified. Why do you hold me so tight, father? I have 
business out, and I must go.” 

Oh, Charlie,” I said entreatingly, also have suf- 
fered. For more than a year no intelligible words of af- 
fection have passed between us. 1 have been as one dead 
to the world, How that we have met once more in love; 
can you not spare me a few poor minutes? Do not leave 
me so soon, my child! Stay yet a little while!” 

I will stay a little while,” he said, 

I strove to win his confidence; with all the fond arts at 
my command I strove to induce him to open his heart to 
me; but he was strangely reticent in his communications. 
He said nothing of himself; the few words he uttered re- 
ferred solely to my long sickness. He did not speak of 
his weary wanderings; he did not reproach me for the 
harsh terms in which I had raved of Molka during my long 
delirium; and the girl’s name was not mentioned by him 
or by me. He spoke briefly of Mr. Ahibaster, and called 
him a noble man, wise, philanthropic, self-sacrificing. 


98 


OH-RISTMAS AKG-RL. 


He lias told me the story of his life, father,” Charlie 
said; ‘‘'there have been few worthier. He will receive his 
reward— as will all who are not deaf to the cries of sutfer* 
ing humanity.” 

At noon he said he wished to go, and perceiving that 
he was bent upon it, I no longer endeavored to prevent 
him, I did not inquire what his errand was — being, in- 
deed, fearful of doing so— nor did he volunteer to en- 
lighten me. 

“ You will not be away long, Charlie? You will return 
before night?” 

“ Either before or during the night, father.” 

“ I shall not go to bed before you come home.” 

“ Very well, father. I shall be sure to be with you 
some time before midnight.” 

There was no lack of tenderness in his tones, nor could 
I truthfully say that the material evidences of affection 
had been absent in him during our interview, but I was 
painfully conscious, after he left me, of a weakening of 
the spiritual bond between us. I tried to argue myself 
out of this impression, but it remained with me to torture 
me, and I could not banish it from my mind. 

The afternoon passed, and the evening. Night fell. I 
remained in my room the whole of the weary time, afraid, 
if I went out even for a few minutes, that Charlie would 
return during my absence, and that we might miss each 
other. I could hear the great bell plainly in my room, 
and I blessed each quarter of an hour that it proclaimed, 
and waited impatiently for the next. Six o’clock. Dark 
night. But this is scarcely correct, for a white shroud 
was upon houses and streets. Seven o’clock. Would he 
never come back? I paced the room to and fro, to and 
fro, in an agony of suspense. Eight o’clock — and still 
he was not- here. I' shut my eyes in the endeavor to cheat 
time of a few minutes, and when I opened them I uttered 
a cry of joy, for Charlie had returned. I had not heard 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


99 


him ascend the stairs or open the door. But he was with 
me again. That was enough. 

He sunk into a chair, and rested his head upon his 
hand, shading his face, so that I could not see it. 

You are tired, Charlie.’’ 

He uttered no sound, he made no movement. 

‘‘You are tired, my dear lad,” I said again, my hand 
upon his shoulder. “ You must have a long, long rest.” 

Then he removed his hand, and gazed steadily at me. 
A white and woe-worn face; eyes in which a nameless hor- 
ror was shining. 

“ I have discovered all, father.” 

The same horror in his voice as in his eyes, and with a 
note of such exquisitely pathetic reproach in it, that every 
fiber of my being quivered at the sound. It was as 
though he, my son, had pronounced me guilty. 

I summoned all my fortitude, all my courage. 

“You speak of Molka?” 1 said. 

“ Yes, of her. You might have told me this morning 
that she had been here. But how could you — how coulcl 
you — when you knew that you have driven her to her 
grave?” 

“ What I did, Charlie,” I said doggedly, “ I did for 
the best.” 

He threw open the window; the snow whirled into the 
room. 

“ It was such a night as this, and she was penniless, 
starving, despairing. Look out upon the cruel, desolate 
streets, and when you say that what you did was for the 
best, find your answer there! The one hope of my heart, 
that would have brought peace and joy to my soul, here 
and hereafter, was to save Molka from the fate to which 
you have driven her. You have destroyed that hope, and 
in destroying her, have destroyed me!” 

What more he would have said I was mercifully spared 
by the sound of regular, heavy steps upon the stairs, 


100 


CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 


They stopped on the landing outside my room^ the door 
of which was opened without ceremony. A policeman 
stood upon the threshold. 

I come upon duty,” he said, and I call upon you to 
answer my questions. It is known that you, and only 
you, can put me on the track of a woman, of the name of 
Molka, who was in Pentecost last night. You knew she 
was in the neighborhood?” 

Answer him, father,” said Charlie, stepping to my 
side and taking my hand. 

Yes,” I said; I knew she was here.” 

You visited her. At what hour?” 

At ten o’clock.” 

How long were you with her?” 

An hour or more; but I can not be sure of minutes.” 

“Was she alone, or had she a baby with her?” 

“ She had a baby with her.” 

“ Her own baby?” 

“ So she said.” 

There was a convulsive movement in Charlie’s fingers, 
but he did not loose my hand. 

“Was the woman in want?” 

“Yes.’’ 

“ Did she sleep in Pentecost last night?” 

“ No.” 

“ She left the house with you. It is known.” 

“Yes; she left the house with me.” 

“ Before she left did she make use of. any particular 
words with reference to her baby?” 

I was silent till Charlie said, “Answer him, father, for 
my sake.” Then I replied: 

“ She asked, more of herself than of me, what she could 
do to prevent her baby growing up as bad and wicked as 
she was herself. And later on she said, addressing the 
babe, ‘ Mother will do the best she jpan for you.’ ” 

“ When she left the house which road did she take?” 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


101 


Toward Westminster. She crossed the bridge.” 

Yon accompanied her as far as that?” 

Yes.” 

Did she say anything before you left her— anything 
particular as to where she was going?” 

“ She said she was going over the bridge into the coun- 
try, never, never to come back.” 

“ Might it happen, from anything else she said to you, 
that you could guide us on the road?” 

In the impalpable air there rose before me the spectral 
shadow of the unfortunate girl beckoning me on, and I 
answered, spirit-compelled: 

Yes; it might happen so.” 

Then I must trouble you to come at once. We must 
track this woman without delay. And when we’ve found 
her — ” 

“ Yes,” I said, mechanically taking up his words; and 
when we’ve found her — ” 

She will have to answer to the law for the life of her 
baby, which was found dead in the river early this morn- 
ing, having been in the water some hours.” 

Charlie’s tears rained upon my hand and gently im- 
pelled me from the house into the snow-clad streets. The 
spectral shadow was before me and beckoned me on. 

We’ll follow you, sir,” said the policeman. 

And then I saw that he was not alone. Two other po- 
licemen had been in waiting for us, and the three followed 
Charlie and me over the silent roads — past the old Abbey- 
over the bridge — at the end of which we paused. 

She must have gone down the steps here,” said the 
policeman, ‘‘and laid the baby quietly down in the water 
at this point. Let us get on, sir.” 

My steps were spiritually directed, and I walked on, 
Charlie’s hand in mine. The streets disappeared — we 
were on the country roads. No sound disturbed the white 
silence of the night. Our feet sunk into the soft snow^ 


102 


CHRISTMAS AHGEL. 


and we fcrod our way noiselessly onward. No word was 
spoken; bul Charlie’s tears still fell upon my hand. By 
that sign, and by the convulsive pressure of his fingers, 
did I know that my son, guilty as I was, had not deserted 
me again. And the soft snow fell upon the fields, upon 
the hedges, upon the country lanes, upon the trees whose 
naked branches were fringed with white beauty. The 
land was clothed in purity. The eternal lamps were 
lighted in the heavens^ and shone upon us sweetly and 
pityingly. And in the distance rose the outlines of a 
church which in the summer must have been glorified 
with lovely flowers. We drew near to it — nearer, nearer* 
The trees which formed the walls were silvered with snow, 
as was the porch which lay full in the light of the moon 
and stars. But a dark shadow was stretched athwart the 
porch. The spectral figure which had led me on disap- 
peared as we stopped within half a ^ozen yards of the 
church. Then, with a sudden movement, Charlie slipped 
his hand from mine, and ran toward the figure, and raised 
its face to the light. 

It was Molka — dead within the holy sanctuary! 

Charlie rose to his feet, and throwing up his arms, with 
a despairing cry, fell prone upon the body of the girl. 

The policemen stooped and tried to lift him up, but his 
arms were clasped round Molka’s body. They knelt in 
the snow, and felt his heart; then looked up at me and said, 

‘‘Your lad has joined her, sir!” 

Blinded by grief and remorse I tottered toward them; 
but the white snow fell now in furious torrents and walled 
them from me. The church, the sky, and every object by 
which I was surrounded were blotted out by my tears; 
and overcome by the terror and horror of the time and 
scene, I fell to the ground in a swoon. 

* * * ^ 

When I opened my eyes again, and raised myself to a 
recumbent posture, I found myself in the chamber to 


CHRISTMAS AKGEL. 


103 


which I had retired after I had kissed the cold, white lips 
of my baby boy. My wife was sleeping calmly and peace- 
fully, and as I gazed at her and at the sweet face of our 
girl-baby, which lay within the shelter of her arm, I 
clasped my hands in thankfulness, and knelt by their 
bedside in silent prayer. Then, awe-struck, I crept from 
the chamber into the room in which our dear Charlie lay. 
The flowers of love and remembrance were scattered over 
his lovely form, and on his breast were the flowers which 
had been gathered in the country by his young brother. 

“ Oh, God, I thank Thee!” 

Two days afterward Molka stood with me by the side 
of our dear lad’s grave. Her j;ears fell upon the earth, as 
she murmured, Poor Charlie! Poor, dear Charlie!” 

She accompanied me home, and will remain with us, 
even as one of our own. If she live, she will grow into a 
pure womanhood. In remembrance of Charlie. 


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140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

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Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 20 

143 One False, Both Fail*. J. B, 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan. . 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

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lope 20 

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By Charles Dickens 20 

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154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

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157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

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Other Stories. By Florence 
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160 Her Gentle Deeds, By Sarah 

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161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

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163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

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165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

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“The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

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168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

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170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories, By “ The Duchess ” lO 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs, Lodge,. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins. .. 10 

176 An April Day, By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel, By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
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179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

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181 The New Abelard, By Robert 

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Payn 20 

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188 Idouea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

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191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 20 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

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ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far I” By 

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195 “ The Way of the AVorld.” By 

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196 Hidden Perils. By Marj’^ Cecil 

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197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

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198 A Husband’s Story. 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

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Scott 20 

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204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

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206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade . . 10 

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and Other Stories. By Flor- 
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209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

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210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

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fToqn. By Charles Tjever. 
First and Second half, each. . 20 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

216 Foul I’lay. By Charles Reade. 20 

217 3 'he Man She Cared For. By 

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223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

2,24 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 20 
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227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da ” . . . 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Doroth}^ Forster. By Walter 

231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

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233 “ 1 Say No or, the Love-Letter 

Answered. Wilkie Collins. ... 20 

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Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade. . . 20 

236 Which Shall lt Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida”... 20 

239 Signa. By “Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. B}^ Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

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245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

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246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

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247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

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250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

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251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

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252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita ”. . 10 
2.53 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 


False. By the author of 
- “Dora Thorne” 10 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 30 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

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258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford .... 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

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Dumas 10 

2G0 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Rohin.sou 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishrnaelite. By Miss M. E. 


Braddon 20 

264 Piddouche, A French Detective. 

By Fortund Du Bo4egobe3^ 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare ; Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 20 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fancy Tale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 
Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel A^’ane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser s Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McA^eigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The AVandering Jew, Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

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271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II, 

By Eugene Sue. 20 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Alarryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The AA’^ait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry AVood. A Man of 
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278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den. 20 

280 Ohinia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester. — 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy, By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald — 20 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

284 Doris. By “The Duchess .. 10 


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286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand. By 

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287 At AVar AVith Herself, By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. B.y 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “ Brutal 


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290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

-291 Love’s AVarfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. Bj' the author 

of “ Dora Thorne” .-... 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A AA’^oman’s AA’ar. B.y the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of •“ Doi'a Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Da^'s. By Hugh Con waj^ 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 lugledew House, and Jlore Bit- 

ter than Death. Bj' the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. B 3 ' the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feui- 

more Cooper ^ 20 

310 The Prairie, By J. Fenimore 

Cooper .’ 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. B 3 ’’ 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A AVeek iiiKillarney. By “The 

Duchess ” 10 

313 The Lover's Creed. . By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoe 3 ' 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
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319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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320 A Bit of Human Nature, By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals : And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

321 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phautastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 10 

32T Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tj'rrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

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328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

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329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 

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330 May Blossom ; or. Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee. .. . 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 


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336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 


337 Memoirs and Resolutions of . 


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341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

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348 From Post to Finish, A Racing 

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352 At Any Cost. By Edw'ard Gar- 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
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354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

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Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Tei’rible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 
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356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

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357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

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358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

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359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

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360 Ropes of Sand, By R. E. Fran- 

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361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter, By 

Sir Walter Scott. 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or, The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
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366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

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367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart ^ 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

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369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 LucyCrofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation, By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife”, 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J, Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret ; or. The 

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375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

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376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

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377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story 

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Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

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382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

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S83 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Aid6 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye 

des Vignerons. Bj’ J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave P’euillet. . . 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

• Charlotte French 20 


388 Addie’s Husband; or. Through 

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389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 


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391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak, By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

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395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

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396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 

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398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan, 

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399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

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401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the 

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403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

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405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

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406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

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407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Alary Cecil 

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409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

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414 Allies Wallingford. (Sequel to 

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415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Alaid of Perth ; or, St. 

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ter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 TheChainbearer; or. The Little- 

page Alanuscripts. By J. 
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420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Alanuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
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421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

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422 Precaution. J.P'euiniore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Alercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay, By J. 
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425 The Oak Openings ; or, The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., Al.P., 
formerly known as “Tommy 
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428 Z6ro : A Story of Alonte-Carlo. 

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429 Boulderstone; or. New Alen and 

Old Populations. By Wiliam 
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430 A Bitter Reck5niug. By the 

author of “By Crooked Paths” 10 

431 The Mon i kins. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper , 20 

432 The Witch’s Head, By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

433 Aly Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

AT. Braeme, author of “Dora 
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By “ Ouida ” 10 

434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Aliss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor... . 20 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Alartin 

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438 Found Out. Helen B. Mathers. 10 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

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440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings, By 

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441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ilanthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of The Albany. . . 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner. By 

Florence Marry at 20 

445 The Shadow of a Crime. By 

Hall Caine 20 

440 Dame Durden. Bj’’ “ Rita ” 20 

447 American Notes. By Charles 

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448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

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449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 

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450 Godfrey Helkoue. By Georgiana 

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451 Market Harborough, and Inside 

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452 In the West Countrie. By May 

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453 The Lottery Ticket. By F. Du 

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454 The IMystery of Edwin Drood. 

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455 Lazarus in Loudon. By F. W. 

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457 The Russians at the Gates of 

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458 A Week of Passion : or. The Di- 

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459 A Woman's Temptation. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
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460 Under a Shadow. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
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461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

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462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 

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463 Redgauntlet. Sir Walter Scott. 20 

464 The Newcomes. By Wm, Make- 

peace Thackeray. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. By Wm. Make- 

peace Thackeray^ Part II 20 

465 The Earl's Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
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466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 

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467 A Struggle for a Ring. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
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468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 

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lotte M. Stanley 10 

469 Lady Darner's Secret. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
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470 Evelyn's Polly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
Dora Thorne ” 20 

472 The Wise Women of Inverness, 

By William Black 10 

473 A Lost Son. By Mary Linskill. 10 

474 Serapis, By George Ebers 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

476 Between 'I’wo Sins. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 

day. By Mrs. Campbell Praed. 10 • 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter 

By MissM. E. Braddon. Parti. 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter 

By MissM. E. Braddon. Part II. 20 

479 Louisa. Katharines. Macquoid 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

481 Tlie House that Jack Built. By 

Alison 10 

482 A Vagrant W'ife. By F. W'arden 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Jle. By 

the author of “A Golden Bar” 10 

484 Although He AVas a IjO~d, and 

Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. Bj’ J. Maclaren 


Cobban 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

BI. E Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss BI. E. Braddon 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Bliss M. E. 

Braddon : 20 

490 A Second Life. Ulrs. Alexander 20 

491 Society in London. By A For- 

eign Resident . • 10 

492 Blignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By' 

J. S. AVinter. Illustrated 10 

493 Colonel Enderbj^’s AVife. By 

Lucas BI ale t 20 

494 A Blaiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 

bara. By “The Duchess ”.. . 10 

495 Blount Royal. By Bliss M. E. 

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490 Only a AA^ornan. Edited by Bliss 

BI. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Blile. By Miss BI. 

E. Braddon 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Bliss M. E. 

Braddon 26 

499 The Cloven Foot. By Bliss BI. 

E. Braddon 2(1 

500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris. 20 

501 BIr. Butler’s AVard. By F. 

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502 Can'iston’s Gift. By Hugh Con- 

way, author of “Called Back ” 10 

503 The Tinted Venus. F. Anstey. 10 
501 Curly: An Actor’s Stoiy. By 

John Coleman. Illustrated. 

My Poor AVife. By the au- 
thor of “ Addie’s Husband 10 
505 The Society of Loudon. By 


Count Paul Vasili 10 

506 Lady i.,ovelace. By the author 

of “ Judith Wynne ” 20 

507 Chronicles of the Cauongate, 

and Other Stoides. By Sir 
Walter Scott 10 

508 The Unholy Wish. By Mrs. 

Henry AVood. The Girl at the 
Gate. By AVilkie Collins 10 

509 NellHaffenden. Tighe Hopkins 20 

510 A Mad Love. By the author of 

“ Lover and Lord ” 10 

511 A Strange AA^orld. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

513 Helen AVhitney’s AA’^edding, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

514 The Mj' steiy of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

616 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ’’ 20 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories. By “The Duchess” 10 

518 The Hidden Sin. A Novel 20 

519 Janies Gordon *^8 Wife. A Novel 20 

520 She's All the AVorld to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

521 Entangled. E. Fairfax Byn-ne 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey 20 

523 The Consequences of a Duel. 

By F. Du Boisgobe3% 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conwa}', author of 
“Called Back” 10 

526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

627 The Days of My Life. By Mrs. 

^liphant 20 

628 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
529 The Doettn ’s AAHfe. B3' Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

630 A Pair of Blue Eyes. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

.531 9’he Prime Minister. Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

531 The Prime Minister. Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 


533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie AValsh 20 

534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet... 20 


NO. PRICE. 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 

neering. Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

drew Lang 10 

537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 

538 A Fair Country Maid. By E. 

Fairfax Bju-rne 20 

539 Silvermead. Jean Middlemas. ^ 

540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 

541 “As it Fell Upon a Day.” By 

“ The Duchess,” and Uncle 


Jack. By AA'alter Besant 10 

542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

543 A Family Affair. By Hugh 

Conwa}’-, author of “Called 
Back” 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel. Miss M. E. Braddon. 10 

545 Vida’s Story 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest. By Basil 20 

548 A Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

.549 Dudley Carleon; or, The Broth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey, By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 10 

550 Struck Down. Hawley Smart. 10 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

553 Birds of Pre3\ By Miss M. E. 

Brjuldon 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

.555 Cara Roma. By Bliss Grant. . . 20 
5.56 A Prince of Darkness. By F. 

AYardeu 20 

557 To the Bitter End. By Bliss BI. 

E. Braddon 20 

.558 Poverty Corner. B3’ G. Manville 

Fenu 20 

559 Taken at the Flood. By Bliss 

BI. E. Braddon 20 

560 Asphodel. Bliss BI. E. Braddon 20 
,561 Just As I Am, By Miss BI. E. 

Braddon 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 

road of Life. By Frank E. 
Smedley 20 

563 The Two Sides of the, Shield. 

By Charlotte BI. Yonge 20 

564 At Bay. By BIrs. Alexander. . . 10 
.565 No Bledium. By Annie Thomas 10 
566 The Royal Highlanders; or. The 

Blade Watch in Egypt. By 

James Grant. 2C 

.567 Dead Blen's Shoes. By Bliss BI. 

E. Braddon 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate. Bj'BIrs. 

Oliphant 20 

569 Harry Bluir. Bj’ BIrs. Oliphant 20 
.570 John Blarchmonfs Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 


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571 Paul Crew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 10 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fotliergill.. 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 

574 The Nabob : A Story of Parisian 

Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

575 The Finger of Fate. By Cap- 

tain Mayue Reid 20 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

577 In Pex’il and Privation. By 

James Pay n 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. Part I. (Illustrated).. 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. Part II. (Illustrated) 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. Part III. (Illustrated) 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

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580 The Red Route. William Sime 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 


Mrs. J. H. Needed .*. 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith .. 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

585 A Drawn Game. By Basil 20 

586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

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587 The Parson o’ Dumford. By G. 

Manville Fenn 20 

588 Cherry. By the author of “ A 

Great Mistake” 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrels. By 

James Payn 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith. 

By F. W. Robinson; 20 

591 The Queen of Hearts. By Wil- 

kie Collins 20 

592 A Strange Voyage. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. - 

Riddell.. 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Bdtham- 

Edwards 20 

595 A North Country Maid. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter.. 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer. By Will- 

iam Sime 10 

598 Corinna. By “ Rita.” 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M. P. By 

George Temple 10 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

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601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

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602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fort- 

une. By Justin McCarthy. . . 20 

603 Agnes. Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 

603 Agues. Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 


Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 
604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

609 The Dark House : A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 

610 The Stoi’y of Dorothy Grape 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the au- 

thor of ” Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Pi’ophet. By Wilkie 
Collins 10 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffitlis... 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

617 Like Dian's Kis.s. By “Rita”. 20 

618 The Mistletoe Boufib. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddou 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. M. Linskill. . . 20 

621 The Warden. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. 

Colquhoun 10 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

R. D. Blackmore 20 

627 White Heather. By William 

Black 20 

628 Wedded Hands. A Novel 20 

629 Ci ipps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? £y 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

639 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

646 .The Master of the Mine. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition 

LATEST ISSUES 


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578 Mathias Sandovf. By Jules 
Verne. Part III. (Illustrated) 10 

592 A Strange Voyage. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Edwards 20 

595 A North Country Maid. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter.. 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer. By Will- 

iam Sime 10 

598 Coriuna. By “ Rita." 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M. P. By 

George Temple 10 

COO Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “ Called Back ” 10 

602 Camiola: A Girl With a Foi't- 

une. By Justin McCarthy. . . 20 

603 Agnes Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 
603 Agnes. Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 


604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 


Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 
604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

606 Mrs. Holly er. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

609 The Dark House: A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Mauville Fenn 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the au- 

thor of “ Dr. Edith Romney " 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet. By Wilkie 
Collins 10 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

616 The Sacred Nugget. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kis.s. By ••Rita”. 20 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. M. Linskill. . . 20 


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621 The Warden. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. 

By Anthony Trollope 10 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. 

Colquhoun 10 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

627 White Heather. By William 

Black 20 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

631 Christowell. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

634 The Unforeseen. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

6-38 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
B ack Horse) Dragoons. By 
J. S. Winter 10 

639 Othmar. By “ Ouida " 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell, By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

642 Britta. By George Temple 10 

643 The Sketch-book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

R h o d a Bi^oughton, and 
Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

646 The Master of the Mine. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

647' Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin ♦. .. 10 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

651 “ Self or Bearer ’’ B 3 ' Walter 

Besant 10 

6.52 The Lady With the Rubies. By 
E. Marlitt 20 

653 A Barren Title. T. W. Speight 10 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesw'orth 10 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 


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MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

80 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of- Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate * 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

t502 The Australian Aunt 10 

^595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

f J21 The Executor 20 

4 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

Kilmeny 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Or dina/ry Edition. 


68 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417. Macleod of Dare ' 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 "White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, *M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 30 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory ‘ 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle lo 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance .* 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10' 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


THM SEASIDE LIBBARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


481 Vixen • 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

650 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legac/ 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 eieorge Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh , 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The, Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 30 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Jlislletoe Bough. Christcjas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

The Professor IP 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAHY. — Ordinary Edition, 


829 Wuthering Heights. 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey < 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

562 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Blfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 2.0 

7709 Love and Oealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated ) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or. Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 1 20 

22 Man and Wife 26 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen lo 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies lo 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark lo 

409 The Haunted Hotel 40 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


I 


TBB SEASIDE LIBRARY.— (h'dinm-y Ediiim. 


651 The Yellow Mask 10 

683 Fallen Leaves 30 

054 Poor Miss Finch 20 

075 The Moonstone 20 

806 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1 544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’ll Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Sny Ho” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer. 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

685 The Water Witch 20 

690 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1669 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins v, 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or. The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 



PEARS' SOAP IMPROVES THE COM- 
PLEXION, IS UNRIVALED AS A PURE DE- 
LIGHTFUL TOILET SOAP, AND IS FOR SALE 
THROlfGHOUT THE CIVILIZED WORLD. 


The New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMEBICAIT HOME MASAZIME. 

Price Cents per Copy. Subsci’iption Price 50 per Year. 


Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “The Duchess,” 
author of “ Molly Bawn,’ Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “ Mauch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 


COMMENTS OF THE PRESS: 


The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is a capital number, replete 
witlj illustrations of all the. fashions of 
the day. The Bazar is superior to all 
other magazines and contains a wealth 
of information for the women. Tlie 
contents also include some excellent 
I'eajding of a miscellaneous nature 
which will interest and instructall who 
peruse it. — Neio London Day. 

The New York Fashion Bazar pre 
sents its patrons with an endless vari- 
ety of styles for winter garments. 
Cloaks, long and short, mantles and 
sacques are profusely illustrated. The 
opening chapters of a new serial by 
“The Duches,” called “Lady Branks- 
mere,” are written in her usual racy 
style,, and the magazine closes with 
all sorts of useful suggestions for the 
toilet to those interested in its intrica- 
cies. — Neioark Daily Journal. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is already out, and is full of 
excellent reading, beginning in this 
number a new story, called “Lady 
Branksmere,” by “The Duchess. ” But 
the fashion plates, colored and plain, 
are the feature. Here is everything 
in season for ladies and children, as 
well as embroidery patterns, etc. It 
is a marvel of cheapness — cents per 
copy ; $2.50 per year .—Methodist Prot- 
estant, Baltimore, Md. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
November has its usual timely array 
of fashion plates and hints by way of 
explanation of the same. George 
Munro, New York, publisher. --Tro?/ 
Telegram. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a 
manual of completeness and elegance. 
It it a veritable book of fashions, is- 
sued every month. The publisher, 
George Munro, is sparing nothing in 
the w'ay of enterprise. — Daily British 
Kingston, Out. 


The December number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar is replete with 
fashion information, illustrated with 
plain and colored engravings, and de- 
votes considerable space to interesting 
stories and other choice reading. — 
Norristoivn Daily Herald. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December appears with its usual com- 
plete representations of the costumes 
of the dayL The reading matter con- 
tains much that is spicj’. — Washing- 
ton Capital. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is 
full of suggestions in regard to the 
fashioning of dresses and fancy arti- 
cles, as well as the usual installment of 
literature.— T/(e Church XJnion,'B.Y. 

The Fashion Bazar, published by 
George Munro, New York, presents a 
most atti active number for November. 

The double-page fashion plate gives 
six full-length figures, handsomely 
colored, showing the most desirable of 
late fashions in garments for the win- - 
ter. and this is fol owed by the most 
i^liable information, fully illustrated, . 
of all the articles of ladies’ wear on ^ 
which the sex desire to be fully in- 
formed. The Bazar is a really ele- 
gant publication, and needs only to be 
seen to be fully appreciated.— Zow- 
rence Daily American. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is gay with winter fashions, 
a verjs,great number of illustrations, a 
brightly colored cover, and a large 
colored fashion plate containing six 
figures, with a multitud<^ of other illus- 
trations. There is also a large amount 
of general reading and stories. — Chris- 
tian Secretary, Hartford, Ct. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is at hand, and is a number 
that will greatly delight the ladies. 

— Daily Argus, Cairo, III. > 


The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per copy. Subscription price $2.50 per year. Address 

GEORGE MUNKO, Miinro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to ‘.i7 Vandewater Street, New York, 


THE CELEBRATED 


SOBMER 

GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 



ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


Centennial Exnibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1883. 


The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count of their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMEB 
Piano is a special 
favorite vrith the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


I 

I 


Munro’s Publications. 

THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 



FROM THE 
NERVE- GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 


BRAIN AND NERVE FOOD 


CROSBY’S 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralgria and side headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or ovei-exliaust- 
ion : regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves tlie sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


“ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 

Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W, 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail SL 


POCKET EDITION. 

MISS M. £. BRAPDON’^S WORKS. 

85 Lady Andley’s Se- 
cret 20 

56 A’hnntom Fortune.. 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 
1.53 'I'he Golden Calf. ... 20 

204 Vixen. 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 R)irbarii;or, Splen- 
did .Ilisery 20 

263 An Ishiiineilte 20 

315The Mistletoe 
Kongh. Edited by 
Siiss Rrnddon.... 2# 

434 Wyllard's Weird.. 20 
47S Uiavola; or. No- 
body’s Daughter. 

Part I... 20 

478 Diavola; or. No. 
body’s Dangbter. 

Part II 20 

480 Married In Haste. 

Edited by Miss M, 

E. Rraddon 20 

487 Pnt to the Test. 

Edited by Miss H. 

E. Rrnddon 20 

488 Joshua Laggard’s 

Daughter 20 

480 Rupert Godwin.... 20 

405 Mount Royal 20 

406 Only a Woman. 

Edited.by Miss 91. 

E. Rrnddon 20 

Any of the above works will be sent by mall, postpaid, 
on receipt of the price. Address -i 

GEORGE MUNRO, Mnnro’s Pnhlishing House, 

P. 0. Box 3751, 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. J 


407 The laidv’s Mile. . . 20 

408 Only a Clod 20 

400 The Cloven Foot... 20 
51 1 A Strange W'orld. . 20 
515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 
524 Strangers and Pil- 
grims 20 

520 The Doctor’s Wife. 20 
542 Fenton's Quest.... 20 
544 Cut by the t'ounty; 


or, Grace Darnel. 10 
548 The Fatal Marriage, 
and The Shadow 
in the Corner. .. . 10 
540 Dudley Carleoii; or. 

The Brother’s Se- 
cret, and George 
CanlOeld’s Jour- 
ney 10 

.5.52 Hostages toFnrtnne *20 

653 Birds of Prey 20 

654 Charlotte’s Inher- 

itance. (Sequel to 
“Birds of Prev,”) 20 
6.57 To the Ritter End. 20 
5.50 Taken at the Flood 20 

.560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A 

Living Lie 20 

.567 Dead Men’s Shoes.. 20 
570 John .Barchmont’s 

Legacy 20 



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